CHARLES  E.VAN  LOAN 


I/J 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 
CHARLES   E.    VAN   LOAN 


BY     CHARLES     E.     VAN     LOAN 

SCORE    BY  INNINGS 

FORE! 

OLD  MAN    CURRY 

BUCK  PARVIN  AND  THE  MOVIES 

NEW    YORK 
GEORGE    H.     DORAN    COMPANY 


SCORE  BY  INNINGS 


BY 

CHARLES  E.  VAN  LOAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "OLD  MAN  CURRY,"  "FORE!"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE   H.   DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1913-14-16,  by  The  Cards  Publishing  Company 


Copyright,  1915,  by  The  Ridgway  Company 

Copyright,  1913-14,  by  Street  &  Smith  Corporation 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO  MY  FRIEND 
ELLIS   WILLIAM   JONES 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  NATIONAL  COMMISSION  DECIDES     .       .       .        .11 

PIUTE  vs.  PIUTE .40 

CHIVALRY  IN  CARBON  COUNTY .73 

THE  SQUIRREL •     103 

I  0  U 137 

THE  BONE  DOCTOR 168 

His  OWN  STUFF .205 

EXCESS  BAGGAGE 239 

NINE  ASSISTS  AND  Two  ERRORS 274 

MISTER  CONLEY  .  .     312 


vil 


SCORE  BY  INNINGS 


THE  NATIONAL  COMMISSION  DECIDES 


;<^  T"OU'LL  never  guess  who's  here,"  said 
|j  "Lefty"  Lucas  to  his  bosom  com 
panion,  Sam  Whelan.  "Not  in  a  thou 
sand  years." 

"Oh,  well,"  remarked  Sam,  with  a  prodigious 
yawn,  "if  that's  the  way  it  is,  you  tell  me  right 
off  the  reel  and  look  at  all  the  time  we  save! 
Who  is  the  gentle  stranger,  anyhow?" 

"  'Gentle  stranger'  is  good,"  said  Lefty. 
"It's  old  'Four-eyed'  Fowler!" 

"You  don't  believe  me!"  ejaculated  Sam. 
"Why,  I  thought  that  old  coot  was  married  to 
his  Chicago  job!" 

"He's  got  a  divorce,  or  a  change  of  venue,  or 
something,"  said  Lucas.  "Or  maybe  the  squir 
rels  got  next  to  him,  and  began  following  him 
around,  and  he  had  to  leave.  He  landed  in 
Chris  MulvihilPs  old  job  on  the  Banner,  and 
he's  down  here  to  grind  out  the  usual  spring- 
training  bunk.  As  if  we  ain't  got  enough  crazy 
people  with  this  ball  club  a 'ready!"  Lefty 
spoke  with  bitterness,  spitting  out  the  words 
one  by  one.  "There's  Cordell,  and  Hackett, 
and  'Ante'  Angarola,  and  'Bugs'  Nieswanger 

[11] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


—four  as  crazy  ball  players  as  ever  got  onto 
the  same  pay  roll,  but  four  ain't  enough  evi 
dently,  so  we  have  to  go  and  draw  a  nutty  re 
porter  to  stiffen  the  hand  and  make  it  a  cinch ! 
They  never  will  quit  calling  us  the  Daffydils 
now!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Whelan 
soothingly.  "I  can't  see  where  you  get  any 
license  to  call  old  Fowler  crazy.  These  old-time 
baseball  reporters  are  the  best  of  the  bunch, 
if  you  ask  me.  They  ain't  near  so  likely  to  be 
home  fans  like  the  younger  fellows;  and  then, 
old  Four-eyes  writes  as  smooth  an  account  of 
a  ball  game  as  you  could  wish  to  see." 

"Uh  huh,  and  Angarola  is  as  smooth  a  third 
baseman  as  you  could  wish  to  see,"  grunted 
Lefty,  "but  he's  crazy  just  the  same,  ain't  he? 
I  never  said  that  Fowler  couldn't  write  up  a 
game  to  the  queen's  taste.  Dog-gone  him,  he 
ought  to  know  how;  he's  been  reporting  base 
ball  ever  since  Eobert  E.  Lee  surrendered!" 

"I  expect,"  said  Sam  slowly,  "the  old  boy 
panned  you  once  or  twice,  and  you've  never 
forgotten  it!" 

"Never  panned  me  in  his  life!"  sputtered 
Lucas.  "That  crack  just  shows  what  a  natural 
'bone'  you  are,  Sam!  Pers'nally  I  ain't  got  a 
thing  against  him — grand  old  guy,  and  all  that, 
but  me,  I  draw  the  line  at  any  white  man  who 
goes  tearing  around  the  country  with  his  vest 
pockets  full  of  lizards,  and  things  like  that. 
Sure!  That's  his  hobby,  lizards!  Doc  McGin- 
ness  tells  me  the  old  boy  honestly  thinks  he's 

[12] 


THE    NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

going  to  write  a  book  about  'em  some  day.  A 
book  on  lizards!  Now,  Sam,  you  know  that 
ain't  natural;  he's  crazy,  I  tell  you!" 

"I  don't  see  it,"  argued  Sam  stubbornly. 
"People  write  books  about  everything  these 
days.  There's  no  reason  why  lizards  can't 
have  a  book  written  about  'em." 

"You  make  me  sick!"  said  Lefty  hotly. 
"You're  just  taking  Fowler's  end  for  the  sake 
of  the  argument.  I  tell  you,  Sam,  it  ain't  safe 
to  have  a  nut  like  him  with  a  ball  club,  because 
you  can't  ever  tell  what  he'll  be  springing  next. 
Look  what  he  did  a  few  seasons  ago  when  he 
was  on  the  road  with  the  Benedicts!  Carried 
four  white  mice  all  the  way  from  Boston  to 
St.  Looey !  He  said  he  was  educating  'em  to  do 
tricks,  but  one  night  the  boys  had  a  Dutch 
lunch  in  the  Pullman,  and  the  mice  smelt  the 
cheese,  and  horned  out  of  the  box  where  Fowler 
kept  'em,  to  go  looking  for  it.  A  couple  of  'em 
wandered  into  Mrs.  Henshaw's  berth  by  mis 
take,  and  she  like  to  had  a  conniption  fit.  Mace 
chucked  the  mice  out  into  the  vestibule,  and  the 
chances  are  they  stepped  off  the  train.  Any 
way,  they  never  turned  up,  and  old  Four-eyes 
was  sore  as  a  pig  about  it.  Mice  are  bad 
enough,  Sam,  but  lizards  are  worse,  and  the 
way  the  old  boy  is  going,  he's  likely  to  switch 
to  snakes  at  any  time.  What  can  you  do  with 
a  fellow  like  that?" 

"Well,"  said  Sam  thoughtfully,  "you  can 
lay  off  of  him,  for  one  thing." 

"Huh!"  snorted  Lefty,  with  wrath.  "You 
[13] 


SCOEE    BY    INNINGS 


don't  need  to  think  that  I'm  going  to  bother 
him.  I  believe  in  letting  a  nut  alone,  every  time, 
but  if  it  was  up  to  me,  I'd  step  out  now  and 
pull  the  box  for  the  padded  wagon.  What  old 
Fowler  needs  is  a  nice  big  sunny  room,  with 
bars  on  the  windows,  and  sand  on  the  floor, 
where  he  can  get  in  and  skate  around  on  his 
hands  and  knees  with  those  lizards  to  his 
heart's  content.  He  don't  belong  with  a  ball 
club,  Sam.  He  ought  to  be  out  in  that  ward 
where  the  old  men  play  with  paper  dolls  and 
things!" 

" Pshaw!"  said  Whelan.  "I  wouldn't  be  as 
narrow  as  you  for  a  farm!  You've  got  no  tol 
eration,  that's  what  ails  you.  If  you'd  lived 
a  few  hundred  years  ago,  you'd  have  been  out 
there  burning  people  at  the  stake  because  they 
didn't  happen  to  think  the  same  as  you  about 
things.  Suppose  old  Four-eyes  is  pretty  strong 
for  lizards!  Chances  are,  that's  the  way  he 
amuses  himself.  You  carry  around  half  a  dozen 
old  decks  of  cards  to  play  that  Canfield  soli 
taire  with,  and  probably,  if  you  asked  Fowler 
what  he  thought  about  it,  he'd  say  Canfield  was 
a  crazy  game.  Every  fellow  to  his  own  taste, 
Lefty.  I  can't  say  that  I'm  stuck  on  lizards 
myself.  I  let  'em  have  all  the  room  they 
seem  to  need,  and  always  did,  but  my  not 
liking  'em  doesn't  make  me  sane  any  more 
than  having  'em  around  him  makes  Fowler 
crazy." 

"That's  right,"  sneered  Lucas;  "keep  on 
kidding  yourself,  Sam.  I'm  saying  that  I  can 

[14] 


THE    NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

see  trouble  ahead — t-r-o-u-b-l-e.  Just  you  stick 
around  here  until  Angarola,  and  Nieswanger, 
and  the  rest  of  those  lunatics  get  a  slant  at 
Fowler,  and  watch  the  doings  around  this 
joint.  You  know  what  the  same  bunch  did  last 
year  around  here,  and  you  know  that  this 
spring-training  stuff  seems  to  bring  out  all  the 
deviltry  in  that  outfit.  It's  a  cinch  they'll  pick 
Four-eyes.  He's  new  to  the  club,  he's  kind  of 
different  from  an  ordinary  newspaper  man,  and 
Angarola '11  just  about  figure  that  Fowler  was 
sent  down  here  to  keep  him  amused.  I  wouldn't 
be  that  old  boy,  not  for  a  thousand  bones — and 
that's  more  money  than  I  ever  saw,  except 
through  a  wire  netting.  Cheese  it!  Here  he 
comes!" 

Lucas  and  Whelan,  members  of  the  pitching 
staff  of  a  big-league  ball  club  lately  christened 
the  Daffydils,  were  sitting  on  the  front  steps  of 
a  winter-tourist  hotel  in  that  portion  of  Amer 
ica  oftenest  referred  to  as  "the  great  South 
west,"  arguing  while  they  waited  the  welcome 
bang  of  the  dinner  gong. 

The  figure  which  silenced  their  discussion  ad 
vanced  upon  the  pitchers,  and  surely  there  was 
nothing  in  the  appearance  of  J.  Horace  Fowler 
in  the  flesh  to  give  weight  to  the  Lucas  theory 
of  dangerous  irresponsibility.  On  the  con 
trary,  most  people,  giving  J.  Horace  a  cursory 
inspection,  would  vote  him  quite  harmless  and 
entirely  responsible. 

There  were  only  three  things  about  Fowler 
which  might  have  attracted  attention — first,  his 

[15] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


neckwear ;  second,  his  eyeglasses,  and  third,  his 
wrinkles. 

No  one  ever  knew  why  old  Four-eyes  affected 
the  black  choker  stock  of  1830 — see  portraits  of 
Andrew  Jackson,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  et  al. — and, 
perhaps,  it  might  even  be  argued  that  a  man's 
neckwear  is  his  own  business. 

Next  in  point  of  importance  were  the  glasses 
—round  in  shape,  rather  larger  than  a  silver 
dollar,  and  rimmed  with  thick  circles  of  tortoise 
shell.  With  his  glasses  on,  J.  Horace  might 
have  posed  as  the  original  of  Mr.  F.  Opper's 
"Common  People." 

Now  we  come  to  the  wrinkles. 

"Y*  see,"  said  one  of  Fowler's  baseball 
friends,  in  attempting  to  explain  the  old  gen 
tleman's  shrivelled  appearance,  ''Four-eyes 
was  born  with  the  skin  of  a  big  man,  under 
stand?  But  he  didn't  make  good,  and  his  hide 
just  nachelly  had  to  shrink  to  fit  him.  There's 
only  one  thing  in  the  world  more  wrinkled 
than  he  is — and  that's  an  elephant's  hind 
leg." 

If  you  cannot  visualise  J.  Horace,  advancing 
behind  his  eyeglasses,  one  more  fashion  note 
may  help  you.  There  are  men  who  wear  soft 
gaiters  with  elastic  anklets.  Horace  was  one  of 
them. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  he  had  been  pitch 
forked  into  the  newspaper  game,  mostly  by  ac 
cident,  with  a  dash  of  contributory  negligence 
thrown  in  for  good  measure.  Neither  the  round 
peg  nor  the  square  hole  has  a  vote  in  the  scheme 

[16] 


THE    NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

of  things,  so,  perhaps,  it  could  not  have  been 
helped. 

A  city  editor,  who  was  of  the  man-eating 
type,  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  young  Fow 
ler.  This  was  at  the  beginning  of  baseball's 
popularity  in  the  country;  the  game  was  forc 
ing  itself  upon  the  press. 

"You're  a  college  man,  eh?"  demanded  the 
man-eater.  "Know  anything  about  baseball?" 

"N-n-no,  sir,"  stammered  Horace;  "that  is 
to  say,  very  little,  indeed." 

"Good!"  shouted  the  city  editor.  "You  can 
never  learn  any  younger.  See  what  you  can  do 
with  baseball ! ' ' 

J.  Horace  accepted  this  assignment  as  he 
would  have  accepted  any  other  newspaper  task. 
It  was  clear  to  his  methodical  and  somewhat 
academic  mind  that  in  order  to  write  under- 
standingly  about  this  game,  he  must  make  it  a 
study.  When  it  came  to  making  a  study  of  a 
thing,  J.  Horace  was  right  at  home  with  all  the 
lights  lit  and  blinds  up  to  the  limit. 

While  other  newspapers  contented  them- 
with  alleged  humorous  accounts  of  the  game 
written  by  men  who  recognised  no  need  for  spe 
cial  knowledge  upon  the  subject,  patient,  plod 
ding  Horace  set  about  to  acquire  expert  in 
formation,  and  before  many  days  his  prim, 
precise,  and  rather  stiff  accounts  of  the  league 
battles  of  that  distant  period  attracted  wido 
attention  in  the  city.  Street  sales  jumped  won 
derfully;  a  few  hundred  enthusiasts  took  their 
pens  in  hand  to  congratulate  the  editor  upon 

[17] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


the  acquisition  of  a  real  baseball  expert,  rather 
than  a  reporter  who  merely  thought  himself 
funny  without  the  least  notion  of  what  he  was 
funny  about. 

The  managing  editor  read  all  these  letters 
carefully,  for  he  was  a  wise  man,  who  believed 
in  counting  the  public  pulse.  The  communica 
tions  from  the  fans  settled  Fowler's  fate. 

"See  here,"  said  the  managing  editor  to  sev 
eral  of  the  "straw  bosses,"  "we've  been  mak 
ing  a  mistake  about  this  baseball  fad.  We've 
been  making  fun  of  the  game  when  what  these 
fellows  want  is  a  serious  account,  handled  by 
an  expert  the  same  as  we  handle  billiards  or 
racing.  Fowler  has  caught  on  big.  Take  him 
off  everything  else,  and  tell  him  to  cut  loose 
with  as  much  of  this  baseball  stuff  as  he  can 
write.  There's  circulation  in  it!" 

"By  golly!"  said  the  city  editor,  reaching 
for  his  slice  of  the  credit,  "I  guess  I  knew  a 
good  man  when  I  saw  him,  eh?  I  had  an  idea 
his  serious  stuff  would  make  a  hit!" 

Thus  J.  Horace  Fowler  fell  a  victim  to  his 
own  lust  for  exact  information  and  accuracy  of 
detail.  He  had  no  love  for  baseball,  or  any 
other  form  of  out-door  exercise.  His  tastes 
were  bookish  in  the  extreme.  He  found  him 
self  in  the  position  of  the  actor  who,  having 
made  a  pronounced  success  in  a  detested  part, 
must  continue  to  play  the  despised  role  to  the 
end  of  his  career. 

The  young  man  saw  his  horizon  narrowing, 
and  not  without  misgivings.  Unfortunately  for 

[18] 


THE    NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

his  ambition,  there  was  in  him  the  traitorous 
patience  which  usually  goes  with  a  treadmill 
job — patience  and  the  timidity  which  keeps 
some  human  animals  forever  circling  an  un 
ending  path,  their  souls  longing  for  green  pas 
tures  outside  the  dusty  ring,  but  their  coward 
feet  dreading  the  break  with  an  ordered  exist 
ence. 

When  his  paper  began  to  advertise  him  as 
"the  well-known  baseball  expert  and  author 
ity,"  Fowler  plucked  up  courage  to  enter  a 
faint  protest. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  he  complained  to  the  city  edi 
tor.  "You  mustn't  do  that.  Really,  you 
mustn't!  I'm  not  an  authority.  Honestly,  I'm 
not!" 

"Sure  you're  not!"  said  the  man-eater 
cheerily.  "And  I'm  not  a  city  editor,  either, 
but  I've  got  people  conned  into  thinking  I  am, 
and  that's  what  counts.  You'll  be  an  expert 
if  we  keep  on  bragging  about  you  for  a  few 
weeks,  so  cheer  up!" 

Years  afterward  J.  Horace  looked  back  to 
that  precise  point  of  his  development  and  recog 
nised  that  at  that  instant  he  should  have 
asserted  himself,  instead  of  which  he  clucked  a 
few  times,  and  backed  away  from  the  city  edi 
tor's  desk — elected  for  life.  In  fact,  it  might 
almost  be  said  that  J.  Horace  clucked  himself 
into  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  mental  bond 
age,  and  was  never  able  to  cluck  himself  out 
of  it. 

In  time  baseball  became  a  habit  with  Fowler, 
[19] 


SCOKE    BY   INNINGS 


binding  him  closer  with  each  succeeding  sea 
son.  Youthful  ambition  faded,  and  Fowler  ac 
cepted  the  inevitable,  though  there  were  periods 
when  he  cast  wistful  eyes  upon  the  green  mead 
ows  and  wondered  what  he  might  have  been 
had  he  not  become  a  baseball  expert. 

Players  came  up,  held  the  limelight  for  a 
space,  and  vanished ;  managers  were  made  and 
broken;  the  whole  personnel  of  the  league 
changed  several  times,  but  old  Four-eyes  re 
mained  in  the  beaten  track,  kicking  up  the  same 
old  dust;  quiet,  unobtrusive,  sometimes  a  bit 
prosy  in  his  reminiscent  vein,  but  recognised  as 
a  distinct  cog  in  the  machine,  and,  in  spite  of 
his  early  protest,  an  " expert"  of  national 
standing  and  distinction.  Twelve  months  a 
year  he  ground  out  his  baseball  column.  Noth 
ing  excited  him,  nothing  aroused  his  enthu 
siasm.  He  never  tried  to  drive  a  ball  player  out 
of  the  league;  he  seldom  "boosted"  one,  and 
he  never  railed  at  the  umpires.  He  was  one  of 
the  odd  characters  developed  by  the  growth  of 
the  national  pastime,  and  as  such  he  had  his 
niche  and  his  peculiar  value. 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  such  an  one,  after 
twenty-five  years  on  the  treadmill  should  have 
taken  up  an  alien  subject  for  relief  from  the 
deadly  monotony1?  Is  it  any  wonder  that  he 
turned  to  a  study  of  the  lower  forms  of  life — 
the  Lacertilia,  for  instance? 

The  new  addition  to  the  Daffydil  menage 
smiled  at  the  two  pitchers  as  he  approached. 
There  was  always  something  human  about  the 

[20] 


THE    NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

old  man's  smile — a  hint  of  warm  blood  behind 
the  wrinkles. 

"Well!"  said  Whelan  cordially.  "You're 
with  us  now,  are  you?  I  hope  you'll  teach  some 
of  these  young  reporters  how  to  write  about  a 
ball  game  without  panning  everybody,  from  the 
manager  to  the  bat  boy." 

"Yes,"  said  Fowler,  "I've  made  a  change. 
It  doesn't  make  so  much  difference  where  a 
man  lives,  does  it?" 

"That's  what  you  think  now!"  said  Lefty 
abruptly.  "You  might  change  your  mind. 
You've  stepped  into  a  continuous  vaudeville 
show  with  this  bunch.  A  fine  lot  of  lunatics 
we've  got  now."  With  which  rather  ambigu 
ous  greeting,  Lefty  arose  and  went  indoors. 
Whelan  loyally  covered  his  retreat. 

"Pay  no  attention  to  Lucas,"  said  the  good- 
hearted  Sam.  "Lefty's  arm  is  sore  this  spring, 
and  any  time  the  old  soup-bone  bothers  him, 
he's  a  crab  for  fair.  He  just  wanted  to  tip 
it  off  to  you  that  this  is  a  pretty  lively  outfit." 

"Um-m-m!  So  I've  heard.  Practical  jokers, 
I  suppose?" 

"Well,  not  so  very  practical,"  qualified  Sam. 
"They're  more  along  the  line  of  rough  kidders, 
if  you  ask  me.  Some  of  the  stuff  they  put  over 
is  pretty  raw." 

"Like  the  crowd  'Pop'  Anson  used  to  have 
in  the  old  days.  Their  hearts  were  all  right, 
but  dear,  dear!  The  things  they  used  to  do! 
Well,  all  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull 
boy,  you  know." 

[21] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


1 '  Correct-o ! ' '  said  Whelan.  ' '  But  how  about 
all  play  and  no  work?  Oh,  things  will  never  be 
dull  around  here.  See  here,  Fowler,  you  did 
me  a  good  turn  once  when  I  was  just  breaking 
into  the  league,  and  I'm  going  to  give  you  a 
friendly  tip.  Lock  the  door  of  your  room  when 
you  go  out  anywhere,  and  carry  the  key  with 
you.  Do  you  get  me  ? ' ' 

"I  think  so,"  said  Fowler,  after  a  short 
pause.  "The  official  rough-housers  are  likely 
to  call  on  me,  are  they?" 

"Only  when  you're  out,"  said  Sam  signifi 
cantly.  "Fixing  up  a  man's  room  for  him  is 
the  best  thing  they  do.  You  ought  to  seen  what 
they  did  to  Lefty  the  first  night  he  got  here." 

"Thank  you,  Sam,"  said  old  Four-eyes.  "A 
word  to  the  wise,  eh?  I  won't  forget.  There 
might  be  some  things  in  my  room  that  I — well, 
things  that  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  disturbed." 

Then  Fowler  switched  the  subject  to  base 
ball,  and  shop  talk  lasted  until  the  gong  ham 
mered  out  the  invitation  to  dine. 


Joe  Pepper  drew  a  plump  salary  as  manager 
of  the  Daffydils,  and  was  beginning  to  doubt 
that  he  was  worth  it. 

It  was  his  second  season  with  the  club,  and 
lie  was  being  made  to  understand  that  the  man 
ager  who  tries  to  be  too  much  of  a  "good  fel 
low"  makes  a  fatal  mistake.  A  Sunday-school 
teacher  may  sometimes  be  "one  of  the  boys," 
and  his  class  take  no  harm  from  it,  but  the  plan 
will  not  work  in  baseball.  On  every  team  there 

[22] 


THE    NATIONAL   COMMISSION    DECIDES 

are  certain  men  who  will  take  advantage  of  a 
slack  rein,  and  Joe  had  introduced  himself  to 
the  club  by  taking  off  the  bridle  altogether. 

"I'm  not  going  to  wet-nurse  you  fellows," 
Pepper  had  remarked  to  the  veterans  of  the 
team.  "I'm  not  going  to  sit  up  nights  to  see 
what  time  you  come  in.  You're  grown  men,  and 
old  enough  to  use  your  own  judgment.  All  I 
ask  is  that  you  keep  in  shape  to  play  ball  dur 
ing  the  season,  and  as  for  the  rest,  I  trust  you." 

The  theory  was  all  right — many  of  Joe's 
theories  were  all  right — but  it  fell  down  hard 
when  tested.  The  Daffydils  were  particularly 
rich  in  mischievous,  rattle-brained  young  men 
who  had  very  little  judgment  of  their  own  on 
which  to  depend,  and  Pepper's  first  season  as  a 
big-league  manager  dusted  the  hair  over  his 
ears  and  planted  new  wrinkles  between  his  eyes. 
The  boys  played  ball  for  him,  seldom  allowing 
pleasure  to  interfere  with  business,  but  they 
might  have  played  better  ball  with  a  few  hours ' 
more  sleep  each  night. 

As  is  common  with  theorists,  Joe  decided  to 
go  to  the  other  extreme. 

"I  gave  'em  a  chance,"  he  thought,  "and 
they  abused  it.  From  now  on,  I'm  a  slave 
driver  for  fair.  ' ' 

Pepper  arrived  at  this  decision  a  couple  of 
weeks  after  the  opening  of  the  spring-training 
season,  aided  thereto  by  the  knowledge  that 
several  of  the  club's  stars  were  not  rounding 
into  playing  form  as  rapidly  as  they  might  have 
done. 

[23] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


Angarola,  Nieswanger,  Cordell,  Hackett,  Mc- 
Lanahan,  and  Sherwin  were  among  the  lag 
gards.  All-night  poker  parties  with  unlimited 
liquid  refreshments  were  gumming  the  wheels 
of  progress,  and  while  Joe  suspected  the 
cause,  he  had  never  been  able  to  catch  the  mis 
creants  full-handed,  as  it  were.  Draw  poker 
is  a  fine  game,  but  very  few  men  can  train 
on  it. 

This  was  the  situation  when  Fowler  joined 
the  team.  The  first  time  the  old  reporter 
walked  into  the  dining-room,  Angarola,  ring 
leader  in  all  the  deviltry  afoot,  and  self-con 
stituted  chairman  of  the  room  committee,  cocked 
an  inquiring  eye  at  ' '  Tiny ' '  Hackett,  the  short 
stop. 

"Look  who's  here!"  said  Nieswanger,  an 
other  of  the  fiery  and  untamed  spirits.  "We'll 
have  to  slip  him  some  of  that  'welcome-to-our- 
city'  stuff,  won't  we?" 

"No  hurry,"  said  Charlie  Cordell.  "Give 
the  old  guy  a  chance  to  unpack  his  things  and 
settle  down.  Maybe  he's  got  some  of  his  pets 
with  him.  Let  him  'light  and  run  along  a 
while." 

There  is  nothing  new  in  the  practical-joke 
line,  particularly  among  ball  players.  Away 
back  in  the  early  days  of  the  game,  a  practical 
humourist  conceived  the  idea  of  letting  himself 
into  a  friend's  room  and  "stacking  the  furni 
ture."  Ever  since  then  this  form  of  humour 
has  been  highly  esteemed  among  ball  players. 
The  Daffydils  had  a  room  committee  second  to 

[24] 


THE   NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

none  in  any  league,  and  when  Angarola  and 
company  were  through  with  a  man's  belongings 
nothing  was  left  to  the  imagination.  It  was 
the  Daffydil  method  of  initiation,  signifying 
no  ill  will,  but  rather  a  rough  sort  of  a  wel 
come. 

Of  course,  the  committee  honoured  Fowler 
with  a  call.  One  evening  the  old  gentleman 
stepped  around  the  corner  to  the  telegraph 
office,  and  when  he  returned,  having  been 
absent  but  a  scant  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  dis 
covered  evidences  of  the  good  feeling  of  the 
Daffydils. 

Old  Four-eyes  was  wise,  and  he  was  also 
patient.  After  a  long  search  in  the  dark  he 
located  the  missing  electric-light  bulbs,  and  be 
held  the  extent  of  the  damage.  Four  hours' 
hard  work  returned  some  sort  of  order  out  of 
chaos.  It  is  astonishing  how  much  four  or  five 
young  men  can  accomplish  in  a  short  space  of 
time ;  and  a  Saratoga  trunk,  emptied  after  the 
fashion  of  a  terrier  digging  at  a  rat  hole, 
creates  a  vast  amount  of  confusion  in  a  small 
room.  It  was  a  very  fine  job,  but  the  members 
of  the  wrecking  crew,  by  this  time  playing 
poker  in  CordelPs  room,  with  a  blanket  over  the 
transom,  and  paper  stuffed  into  the  cracks  of 
the  door,  were  disappointed. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Nieswanger,  cautiously 
"skinning"  his  hand  for  openers,  "if  that  was 
all  the  bunk  about  his  having  lizards  and  things. 
He  got  two  crates  of  something  by  express  the 
other  day,  but  if  there  was  any  lizards  or  things 

[25] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


in  that  room,  I  don't  know  where  they  were  hid 
ing.  Hey?" 

1 * Maybe  he  doesn't  keep  'em  in  his  room," 
suggested  Angarola.  "I'll  bet  he's  got  'em 
somewhere  at  that." 

"We'll  have  to  keep  tab  on  him  and  find 
out,"  said  Hackett.  "Come  on,  Charlie;  what 
are  you  doing?" 

"I'll  crack  it,"  said  Cordell,  shoving  two 
blues  to  the  centre.  "It'll  cost  you  burglars  a 
dollar  to  draw  against  my  little  pair." 


The  next  morning  at  breakfast  old  Four-eyes 
favoured  the  assembled  athletes  with  his  usual 
bland  smile,  and  the  members  of  the  room  com 
mittee,  watching  him  narrowly  out  of  eyes  red 
der  than  they  should  have  been,  discovered  no 
trace  of  annoyance  in  his  manner. 

"Takes  it  like  a  sport,"  whispered  Hackett 
to  Nieswanger.  "Suppose  he  knows  who  did 
it?" 

"Of  course  he  does!"  said  the  left  fielder. 
"He's  got  sense  enough  to  know  that  it  won't 
do  him  any  good  to  make  a  holler.  Gee,  but 
I've  got  an  awful  headache!" 

That  morning  Joe  Pepper,  surveying  his  war 
riors,  noted  the  red  eyes  and  the  extreme  lassi 
tude  which  marked  the  morning  practice  of  the 
wrecking  crew.  To  these  miscreants  he  an 
nounced  his  change  of  policy. 

"I've  stood  a  lot  of  fooling,"  said  the  man 
ager,  "but  from  now  on,  you  fellows  have  got 
to  cut  it  out.  You're  not  taking  care  of  your- 

[26] 


THE    NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

selves;  you're  not  giving  the  club  your  best 
services.  After  this,  the  very  first  fellow  that 
I  catch  out  of  bed  at  eleven  o'clock  is  going  to 
be  fined  enough  to  make  it  interesting.  I  gave 
you  boys  a  chance,  and  you  played  me  for  a 
boob.  Remember  now,  no  more  booze  and  no 
more  poker.  If  you  think  this  is  a  joke,  you 
let  me  catch  you  and  it'll  cost  you  a  month's 
pay  all  around.  Understand?" 

For  a  few  days  this  terrible  threat  held  the 
disorderly  element  in  check.  Joe  Pepper,  hav 
ing  changed  from  Jekyll  to  Hyde,  openly 
patrolled  the  corridors  of  the  hotel  at  un 
seasonable  hours,  listening  at  keyholes  for 
sounds  of  revelry  by  night,  and  an  immediate 
improvement  in  the  condition  of  several  mem 
bers  of  the  team  was  noticeable. 

Their  natural  outlet  closed,  the  wreckers 
turned  to  other  fields  of  entertainment,  with  one 
important  result.  On  a  Friday  night  Angarola 
and  Nieswanger  were  playing  pool  in  the  bil 
liard  room  at  the  hotel  when  Hackett  burst  in 
upon  them,  breathless. 

"I've  got  'em  located!"  he  panted. 

"Got  who  located?"  demanded  Angarola, 
elaborately  chalking  his  cue.  "Got  what 
located?" 

"The  lizards!"  said  Hackett.  "About  a 
thousand  of  'em!" 

"You  don't  say  so!"  cried  Nieswanger. 
"Then  he  had  'em  here  all  the  time?" 

"Sure!"  said  Hackett.  "He's  got  'em  up  in 
a  vacant  room  on  the  top  floor,  the  whole  flock 

[27] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


of  'em.  Some  of  'em  are  in  cages  and  boxes, 
and  some  of  'em  are  running  around  loose." 

"You  saw  'em?"  asked  Angarola. 

"Of  course  I  did!  I  spotted  the  old  boy 
coming  down  from  the  top  floor  this  noon,  and 
I  went  nosing  around  up  there  while  he  was 
writing  his  stuff.  He  must  have  framed  up 
some  deal  with  the  hotel  folks  on  the  strict  Q. 
T.  I  picked  the  lock  of  the  door  with  a  hair 
pin  and  looked  'em  over — horned  toads,  long- 
tail  lizards,  short-tail  lizards,  bobtail  lizards, 
and  one  great  big  fellow  with  a  blue  tongue! 
Oh,  he's  got  'em  all  here,  you  bet!" 

Angarola  grinned  reflectively  as  he  dropped 
the  eighth  ball  in  the  side  pocket. 

"It  seems  a  kind  of  a  shame,"  sagd  he,  "that 
the  old  man  should  keep  all  those  poor  things 
penned  up  indoors.  A  lizard  was  meant  to 
have  some  pers'nal  liberty.  I  guess" — and 
here  Angarola  paused  to  beam  upon  his  lieu 
tenants  in  crime — "I  guess  we'll  have  to  look 
into  this  thing!" 

They  did  look  into  it,  and  the  next  morning, 
old  Pour-eyes,  ascending  soft-footedly  to  the 
top  floor,  found  the  door  of  room  thirty-seven 
unlocked,  and,  with  a  cold  premonition  chilling 
his  spine,  stepped  over  the  threshold.  No 
rustle  and  scramble  along  the  sanded  floor 
greeted  him ;  the  first  glance  was  enough  to  tell 
the  story.  Gone  were  the  friendly  horned 
toads,  representing  seven  species,  three  years 
of  correspondence,  and  no  small  amount  of 
money.  Gone  were  the  little  grey  swifts,  the 

[28] 


THE    NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

blue-bellied  mountain  lizards  of  the  Pacific 
coast,  and  the  black  racers  of  the  South — all 
gone.  A  wire  cage,  upside  down  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  was  a  melancholy  reminder  of  the 
gem  of  the  collection,  the  blue-tongued  Aus 
tralian  skink,  worth  twice  his  weight  in  gold. 
It  had  taken  Fowler  four  years  to  make  his 
collection,  and  it  had  been  dispersed  over 
night. 

Forty-seven  seconds  afterward,  Joe  Pepper, 
attacking  his  grapefruit  at  the  breakfast  table, 
was  violently  shaken  by  a  wild-eyed  little  old 
man,  who  cried: 

"A  joke  is  a  joke,  but  where  are  my  lizards? 
"Where  are  they?" 

Lefty  Lucas,  sitting  with  Sam  Whelan,  said : 

"What  did  I  tell  you?  He  ain't  crazy  or 
anything!  Just  look  at  him!" 

Whelan  shook  his  head.  An  old  man  in  a 
black  stock  and  round  eyeglasses,  who  dances, 
and  sputters,  and  howls,  may  easily  be  mistaken 
for  a  lunatic.  Joe  Pepper  listened  with  his 
mouth  open,  while  Angarola,  Nieswanger,  and 
Hackett  exhibited  lively  interest  and  curi 
osity. 

"Lizards?"  said  Joe  Pepper.  "What 
lizards!" 

"Come  and  see!  Come  and  see!"  cried 
Fowler. 

Pepper  accompanied  him  to  the  top  floor, 
where  he  gazed  upon  the  ruin  wrought  by  the 
unknown  miscreants. 

"Almost  my  entire  collection!"  chattered 
[29] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


Fowler.  "One  hundred  and  fifteen  specimens; 
fifty-eight  species!  It  took  me  four  years  to 
get  them  together;  last  night  they  were  here, 
and  now  they're  gone!  Your  rowdy  ball  play 
ers  have  stolen  them!  I  was  warned  they'd 
do  it!  I  can  sue  your  club,  sir!  I  can  recover 
heavy  damages!" 

"But  what  did  you  want  the  things  for?" 
demanded  the  sometimes  practical  Pepper, 
peering  into  the  late  habitation  of  the  blue- 
tongued  Australian  skink. 

"My  book!"  screamed  the  old  man.  "  'La- 
certilia  of  the  Western  Hemisphere ! '  I  am 
writing  a  book!  I'll  sue 

It  took  two  hours  to  explain  to  Mr.  Fowler 
that  he  could  not  bring  suit  without  definite 
proof,  and  just  as  he  was  beginning  to  listen  to 
reason,  a  bell  boy  brought  word  that  the  back 
yard  of  the  hotel  was  full  of  lizards.  It  was, 
but  most  of  them  were  dead.  A  few  of  the 
horned  toads  survived  the  fall  from  the  top 
floor,  being  hardy  vertebrates,  but  the  Aus 
tralian  skink,  the  swifts,  the  blue-bellied  moun 
tain  lizards,  and  the  black  racers  had  passed 
from  captivity  into  the  freedom  of  the  great 
beyond.  Fowler's  language  surprised  even  the 
ball  players,  some  of  whom  assisted  in  gather 
ing  up  the  defunct  reptiles. 

Joe  Pepper  made  an  investigation,  and  old 
Four-eyes  cross-questioned  every  one  in  the 
hotel,  but  nobody  seemed  to  know  a  thing  about 
the  affair.  Angarola  was  particularly  loud  in 
denouncing  it  as  an  outrage.  Hackett  and 

[30] 


THE    NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

Nieswanger  stood  pat  on  an  alibi,  and  Charlie 
Cordell,  out  of  it  for  once,  depended  upon  the 
plain  truth. 

Fowler  fumed,  and  raved,  and  threatened  for 
the  better  part  of  a  week  before  he  made  up  his 
mind  that  no  redress  was  possible.  In  his  heart 
he  felt  certain  of  the  identity  of  the  culprits, 
but  lack  of  definite  proof  rendered  him  helpless. 
At  the  end  of  the  week  his  mind  began  to  work 
in  another  channel,  and  he  sent  a  long  telegram 
to  a  curio  dealer  in  Chicago,  beginning  with 
these  words: 

Ship  me  express  the  three  specimens  Heloderma  suspectum 
left  in  your  care. 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  night  operator. 
"A  cipher?" 

"Well,"  said  old  Fowler,  "it  amounts  to  the 
same  thing." 

The  storm  blew  over,  and  the  wrecking  crew 
went  back  to  draw  poker  in  Hackett's  room — 
with  a  blanket  over  the  transom  and  paper 
chips,  which  do  not  rattle.  Sam  Whelan  and 
Lefty  Lucas  occupied  the  room  next  to  Hack 
ett's,  with  a  common  bathroom  between.  Fow 
ler  took  to  dropping  in  on  Whelan  late  in  the 
evening,  much  to  Lucas'  disgust.  There  were 
times  when  the  riffling  of  cards  could  be  dis 
tinctly  heard  by  Whelan 's  guest,  but  he  said 
nothing  until  the  express  agent  notified  him  of 
the  arrival  of  a  strong  wire  crate. 

"Come  on  up  to  my  room  a  minute,"  said 
[31] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


Fowler  to  Whelan.    "I've  got  something  I  want 
to  show  you." 

"Whelan  followed,  wondering.  Old  Four-eyes 
slipped  out  the  top  slide  of  the  crate  and  bade 
Sam  look  inside.  Sprawling  in  the  sand  were 
three  vicious-looking  reptiles,  thickset  and 
stumpy  in  outline,  covered  from  their  flat, 
broad  heads  to  their  heavy  tails  with  beadlike 
nodules  in  regular  patterns  of  black,  brown, 
yellow  and  pink. 

1 '  Holy  cats ! ' '  gasped  the  ball  player.  ' '  What 
are  they?" 

"A  species  of  lizard  from  the  Great  Ameri 
can  Desert,"  said  Fowler.  "That  one  over  in 
the  corner  is  the  biggest  one  I  have  ever  seen. 
Aren't  they  beauties?" 

"They  are  if  you  say  so,"  said  the  diplo 
matic  Sam.  "What  do  you  call  'em?" 

"Gila  monsters,"  said  Fowler.  "  'Helo- 
derma  suspectum'  is  the  scientific  name." 

"I'll  take  your  word  for  it,"  said  Whelan. 
"I'd  suspect  'em  on  sight.  Will  they  bite?" 

"If  you  give  'em  a  chance,"  said  Fowler. 
"They're  supposed  to  be  poisonous,  but  they 
are  so  slow  on  their  feet  that  very  few  people 
have  ever  been  bitten  by  them." 

"They'd  have  to  do  a  hundred  yards  in  nine 
seconds  flat  to  catch  me!"  announced  Sam. 
"Golly,  what  ugly-looking  brutes!" 

"They  aren't  handsome  for  a  fact,"  said  old 
Four-eyes,  beaming  behind  his  glasses.  "Just 
for  fun,  I  call  'em  the  '  National  Commis 
sion.'  " 

[32] 


THE    NATIONAL,    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

"Got  'em  named,  have  you?"  asked  Whelan, 
backing  away  from  the  crate. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Fowler.  "I  call  the  big  one 
Ban  Johnson,  because  he's  the  boss.  The  one 
in  the  middle  is  Garry  Herrmann,  and  this  one 
here  is  Lynch." 

Whelan  roared  at  this  odd  conceit. 

"What's  the  idea  of  bringing  them  down 
here?"  he  asked.  "This  ain't  no  healthy  place 
for  lizards.  Some  one  might  turn  these  babies 
loose,  and  you'd  lose  'em." 

"No,"  said  Fowler.  "Nobody  will  bother 
these  fellows.  Nobody  would  dare  get  that 
close  to  them.  I  brought  them  here  for  a  cer 
tain  purpose.  You  know  what  happened  to  my 
other  specimens.  That  little  joke  cost  me 
about  five  hundred  dollars — to  say  nothing  of 
my  time,  and  the  book  I  intended  to  write.  I 
tried  to  get  satisfaction  from  Pepper,  and  there 
was  nothing  doing.  Sam,  what  does  a  fellow 
do  when  the  manager  of  the  club  won't  listen 
to  his  complaint  and  the  league  won't  help 
him?" 

"I  dunno,"  said  Sam  blankly.  "Puts  it  up 
to  the  National  Commission,  I  guess." 

Fowler  chuckled  and  tickled  "Ban  John 
son"  with  the  end  of  a  pencil.  The  creature 
made  an  odd,  hissing  sound,  and  moved  pon 
derously  across  the  cage. 

"You've  said  it,  Sam!"  said  Fowler. 
"That's  exactly  what  I'm  going  to  do.  I'm 
going  to  put  my  case  before  the  National  Com 
mission — this  commission ! ' ' 

[33] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


Whelan  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
regarded  Fowler  with  unblinking  eyes. 

"He  is  crazy,  after  all!"  thought  the  pitcher. 

"Angarola  and  his  bunch  did  it,"  said  Fow 
ler.  "I  feel  sure  enough  of  it  to  take  an  oath, 
but  I  couldn't  prove  it.  Now,  then,  Sam,  I 
owe  those  fellows  something,  and  if  I  can't  get 
square  with  them  one  way,  maybe  I  can  in 
another. ' ' 

"That  sounds  reasonable,"  said  Whelan, 
"but  how  can  you  get  hunk?" 

"Easy.  They  play  poker  in  Hackett's  room, 
don't  they,  next  door  to  you  with  the  bath 
room  in  between?  Pepper  has  gone  on  record 
that  he  would  fine  the  next  man  he  caught 
breaking  training  rules  a  month's  salary.  Sup 
pose  he  should  catch  that  bunch— 

"Nix!"  said  Whelan.  "You  wouldn't  tip 
'em  off  to  Joe,  would  you?  That  wouldn't  be 
playing  the  game,  and  besides,  they'd  make 
your  life  a  hell  on  earth." 

"You  misunderstand  me,"  said  Fowler. 
"Suppose  something  should  happen  that  would 
make  them  tip  themselves  off?  Suppose— 
And  here  old  Four-eyes  departed  into  the  realm, 
of  conjecture,  while  Sam  rolled  about  on  the 
bed  and  laughed  until  the  tears  came. 

"A  grand  idea!"  he  gurgled.  "Oh,  you 
National  Commish!" 

The  hour  was  very  late,  or  very  early,  just 
as  you  prefer.  Hackett  was  entertaining,  as 
usual,  and  four  members  of  the  wrecking  crew 

[34] 


THE    NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

were  seated  about  a  small  table  upon  which  was 
spread  a  thick  woollen  blanket,  serving  as  a 
silencer.  The  men  talked  in  guarded  whis 
pers. 

"If  I'd  caught  that  spade  I  was  looking  for," 
complained  Nieswanger  huskily,  "I'd  have 
made  you  put  those  three  K-cards  back  in  the 
deck!" 

"There  you  go  again!"  said  Angarola.  "I 
came  near  owning  a  railroad  once.  Asked  the 
man  if  he'd  give  it  to  me,  an'  he — hie! — he 
says  '  No ! '  If  he  'd  said  '  Yes  '— 

"Oh,  shut  up  and  deal  the  cards!"  grumbled 
the  genial  host  who  was  losing.  "I'd  just  as 
soon  play  poker  with  a  lot  of  ole  women  as 
with  you  guys!  Any  rye  left  in  that  bottle, 
Charlie?" 

Cordell  lifted  a  quart'  bottle  and  shook  it, 
listening  to  the  thin  tinkle. 

"Mighty  little.  Guess  you'd  better  switch 
to  bourbon.  It's  back  of  your  chair." 

Angarola  riffled  the  cards  and  dealt  swiftly. 
The  game  proceeded.  Losers  sought  consola 
tion  in  the  form  of  raw  liquor,  and  winners 
drank  to  continued  prosperity. 

"S'pose  ole  Joe  come  hornin'  in  now, 
what?"  suggested  Angarola  at  four  in  the 
morning.  "Month's  sala'y  gone  jus'  like 
that!"  He  snapped  his  fingers  in  the  air. 

"Forget  it!"  commanded  Hackett.  "Whose 
'do'  is  it?" 

At  five  o'clock  it  was  decided  to  play  one 
round  of  two-dollar  jacks  and  break  up  the 

[35] 


SCOKE    BY   INNINGS 


entertainment.  Hackett  protested  feebly  and 
clamoured  for  the  removal  of  the  limit. 

"Jus'  's  you  shay!"  remarked  Nieswanger. 
"Bet  'em  to  the  ceiling!" 

He  dealt  clumsily,  and  Angarola,  scrutinis 
ing  his  cards  with  drunken  gravity,  pushed  a 
stack  of  blues  to  the  centre. 

"Cost  you  twenty  bucks  t'  'sociate,"  he 
mumbled.  "Anybody  goin'  stay!" 

Hackett  examined  his  hand  with  many  grunts 
and  groans,  and  then,  taking  out  his  wallet,  ex 
tracted  therefrom  a  yellow-backed  bill  which 
he  tossed  into  the  pot. 

"Make  it  fifty  altogether!"  he  said  thickly. 

"Too  strong  for  my  little  pair,"  said  Cordell, 
and  Nieswanger  also  passed.  Angarola  grinned 
at  Hackett  across  the  table. 

"01'  boy's  tryin'  throw  scare  into  me!"  he 
said.  "Out  on  a  limb.  Goin'  try  to  steal  my 
stack — hie! — blue  chips.  Anybody  but  you, 
Hack, — an'  I  might — 'ic — might  let'm  get  'way 
with  it!  Le's  look  see."  Then  Angarola 
counted  his  checks  and  discovered  that  he  was 
"still  pretty  fat,"  as  he  expressed  it.  "No, 
Hack!"  he  said,  at  length.  "Can't  steal 
nothin'  from  li'l  Angie!"  He  pushed  more  blue 
chips  to  the  centre  of  the  table. 

Just  then  the  bathroom  door  creaked  slightly, 
but  the  players  did  not  hear  it.  They  were 
wrapped  up  in  the  one  big  pot  of  the  eve 
ning. 

"How  many?"  said  Nieswanger,  picking  up 
the  deck. 

[36] 


THE    NATIONAL    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

"Me?"  said  Angarola.  "Oh,  I  guess — 'ic! — 
I'll  jush  play  these!" 

"If  you  had  a  pat  hand,"  muttered  Hackett 
shrewdly,  "you'd  have  given  me  a  back  raise. 
That  being  the  case,  I  won't  take  any  cards 
myself.  Now  bet  your  head  off!" 

"Whew!"  whistled  Nieswanger. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Angarola  was  be 
ginning  to  wish  that  he  had  drawn  to  his  three 
tens.  He  scratched  his  chin  and  looked 
thoughtfully  about  the  room  as  if  he  expected 
the  furniture  to  give  him  some  hint.  His  wan 
dering  eyes  fell  upon  the  bathroom  door.  It 
was  slowly  opening.  Angarola  studied  this 
phenomenon  gravely. 

As  he  watched  the  widening  crack,  a  blunt 
pink  nose  appeared,  followed  by  a  flat,  veno 
mous  head,  covered  with  spotted  warts.  What 
ever  it  was,  the  thing  seemed  to  be  moving. 
Two  pudgy  forelegs  next  came  into  view,  and 
then  a  thick  barrel  of  a  body,  elaborately 
beaded  in  black  and  yellow.  Angarola 's  eyes 
were  glassy,  and  his  lips  worked  soundlessly. 

"Come  on  there!"  urged  the  nervous  Hack 
ett.  "Your  bet,  Angie!  Don't  go  into  a 
trance." 

"Say!"  whispered  Angarola  hoarsely.  "Am 
I  drunk,  or  is  that  thing — alive?" 

The  terror  in  his  voice  caused  the  players 
to  whirl  in  their  chairs  just  as  the  first  mem 
ber  of  the  "National  Commission"  heaved  its 
ugly  shape  over  the  threshold.  Close  behind 
the  slowly  swaying  tail  came  two  more  pink- 

[37] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


and-black  horrors,  and  in  the  instant  of  para 
lysed  silence  which  ensued  was  heard  a  scratch 
ing,  scraping  sound,  as  the  blunt  claws  bit  into 
the  carpet.  Scientists  disagree  as  to  the  deadly 
nature  of  the  bite  of  the  Heloderma  suspectum, 
probably  because  no  man  with  the  use  of  his 
legs  ever  allowed  one  to  get  close  enough  to 
make  a  fair  test. 

Cordell  has  always  claimed  that  if  Hackett 
had  kept  his  mouth  shut  the  most  painful  fea 
tures  of  the  incident  might  have  been  elimi 
nated.  Sam  Whelan  and  old  Four-eyes, 
crouching  in  the  bathroom,  gave  testimony  that 
four  men  yelled  simultaneously — four  blood 
curdling,  ear-piercing  yells,  followed  imme 
diately  by  a  sound  of  smashing  furniture.  That 
was  Nieswanger,  trying  to  jump  over  the  table 
on  his  way  to  the  door. 

Joe  Pepper,  always  a  light  sleeper,  leaped 
out  of  bed  at  the  first  outcry,  and  sprang  into 
the  hall  in  time  to  see  four  of  his  hired  men 
dash  wildly  out  of  Hackett 's  room,  yelling  as 
if  their  lives  depended  upon  the  amount  of 
noise  they  could  make. 

The  manager,  first  amazed  at  the  spectacle, 
and  then  curious  as  to  the  cause  of  the  scream 
ing  exodus,  hurried  to  Hackett 's  room.  He 
saw  the  overturned  table  and  the  poker  chips 
upon  the  floor.  He  saw  the  empty  bottles,  and 
he  smelled  of  them.  He  saw  the  blanket  hung 
over  the  transom,  and  he  smiled  a  hard  smile. 

''Caught  with  the  goods!"  said  Joe  Pepper. 
"With  the  goods!" 

[38] 


THE    NATIONAL,    COMMISSION    DECIDES 

But  of  the  "National  Commission"  the  man 
ager  saw  not  so  much  as  a  single  claw  or  tail. 
Fowler  had  moved  swiftly,  and  the  recall  of 
the  Commission  had  been  extremely  sudden. 

"You  heard  what  I  said,"  remarked  Pepper 
to  the  victims  that  morning.  "A  month's  sal 
ary — and  it  goes.  I'm  as  liberal  as  anybody. 
I  don't  object  to  a  little  draw  poker  once  in  a 
while,  but  I  draw  the  line  at  delirium  tre- 
mens ! ' ' 

"But,  Joe,"  pleaded  Hackett,  "we  all  saw 
'em,  I  tell  you !  They  were  right  there  in  the 
room!  One  of  'em  tried  to  bite  me!" 

"Something  bit  you  all  right,"  said  Pepper 
unfeelingly,  "but  what  did  came  out  of  a  bottle. 
What's  the  use  of  your  lying  about  it?" 

Old  Four-eyes  is  still  working  upon  his  book. 
Between  times  he  travels  with  the  Daffydils. 
He  could  leave  the  door  of  his  room  wide  open, 
day  or  night ;  no  ball  player  would  think  of  dis 
turbing  his  possessions. 


[39] 


PIUTE  VS.  PIUTE 


TO  begin  with,  we  were  broke.    I  tell  you 
this  right  off  the  reel  so  that  those  who 
have  been  broke  will  make  allowances, 
and  those  who  have  not  will  use  their 
imaginations.    We  were  broke  to  such  an  extent 
that  we  were  overripe  for  treason,  anarchy,  and 
pillage,  but  mostly  pillage.     Frankie  had  two 
eighty-five,  I  had  a  Columbian  half-dollar  with 
a  hole  in  it,  and  \ve  were  seven  hundred  miles 
from  home  as  the  crow  flies.    We  figured  the 
cash  balance  and  estimated  the  mileage  in  the 
freight  caboose  after  the  engine  whistled  for 
Carson  City. 

This  was  in  the  summer  of  '04,  between  our 
sophomore  and  junior  years,  and  vacation  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  We  had  folks,  of  course, 
nice  respectable  folks,  but  they  had  advised  us 
against  spending  the  summer  where,  and  how, 
we  wanted  to  spend  it.  To  write  home  and 
admit  defeat  would  have  damaged  our  pride 
and  punched  holes  in  our  future  independence. 
We  had  selected  this  little  prodigal-son  jaunt, 
the  far  country  was  of  our  choosing,  and  it  was 
up  to  us  to  go  the  distance,  husks  and  all. 

[40] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


The  reasons  why  we  were  broke  don't  belong 
to  this  story.  They  had  to  do  with  our  job  in 
Bullfrog,  which  was  to  work  for  a  mining  com 
pany — nearly  an  hour  a  day — and  play  a  game 
of  baseball  every  Sunday  afternoon.  They  also 
had  to  do  with  a  squeeze  play  which  went 
wrong,  and  gave  the  Bullfroggers  the  notion 
we  had  thrown  the  game.  But  never  mind  the 
details;  even  now  it  distresses  me  to  recall 
them. 

We  found  it  was  our  move,  and  we  moved — 
at  once.  After  some  promiscuous  wanderings 
we  headed  for  Carson  City,  because  Frankie 
had  once  been  there  and  claimed  to  have 
wealthy  and  influential  friends  in  the  town. 
We  arrived  in  the  morning,  after  pounding  the 
rails  all  night  in  the  freight  caboose.  The  con 
ductor  had  bet  against  Bullfrog  in  our  last 
game,  and  felt  under  obligations  to  us. 

As  we  were  leaving  the  depot,  Frankie  let 
out  a  yelp  of  joy  and  dashed  across  the  street, 
where  he  fell  on  the  neck  of  a  big,  meaty-look 
ing  stranger.  I  followed,  fearing  that  he  had 
been  hit  by  the  sun  and  hoping  that  he  had 
located  one  of  the  Carson  millionaire  pals  that 
he  had  been  babbling  about  the  night  before; 
but  when  I  got  a  look  at  the  meaty  party,  who 
should  it  be  but  dear  old  John  Holderman! 
John  graduated  from  college  at  the  end  of  our 
freshman  year,  but  we  had  one  fine  large  season 
together  on  three  'varsity  teams  before  he  beat 
it  from  the  halls  of  learning. 

After  the  first  shock  wore  off,  John  conducted 
[41] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


us  to  a  place  where  they  had  limes  and  ice  and 
some  other  ingredients,  and  bade  us  be  seated. 
We  started  to  tell  him  our  troubles. 

1  'Coals  to  Newcastle!"  said  John.  "Ossa 
on  Pelion!  What  would  you  do  if  they  asked 
you  to  make  bricks  without  straw?" 

"Your  mouth  is  open,"  said  I,  "but  you 
haven't  said  anything.  Cut  out  the  simile  and 
the  metaphor,  and  put  her  straight  over." 

* '  Briefly,  then,  and  in  words  of  one  syllable, ' ' 
said  John,  "I  am  the  physical  director  and 
athletic  coach  of  the  Stewart  Indian  School.  I 
give  the  noble  Piute  the  degree  of  A.B.C." 

"Able  Bodied  Citizen,"  said  Frankie.  "Old 
stuff.  Proceed  with  the  rat-killing." 

"Well,  last  spring,"  John  continued,  "our 
baseball  team  went  crazy  with  the  heat  and  beat 
the  Nevada  University  bunch.  Now  the  citizens 
of  Carson  have  put  it  up  to  me  to  wripe  out  a 
long-standing  grudge  and  lick  the  Reno  ball- 
club.  I  can't  cut  the  mustard." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Frankie. 

"Because,"  said  John,  holding  up  three 
fingers  to  the  waiter,  "there  is  a  hole  in  my 
Piute  infield  as  wide  as  the  Washoe  Valley.  G. 
Washington  Delaware,  my  regular  second-base 
man,  team  captain,  and  brains  of  the  outfit,  if 
any,  has  mopped  up  all  the  civilisation  he  can 
hold  and  gone  back  to  the  cactus,  leaving  us 
flat.  The  Reno  people  know  I  am  up  against 
it,  and  are  hot  on  my  trail.  If  I  refuse  to  meet 
them,  Carson  will  think  I  am  a  shine  physical- 
director.  If  I  meet  them  and  lose,  they  will 

[42] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


say  I  am  a  rotten  baseball-coach  and  knock  me 
out  of  my  job.     I  am  in  a  tough  position." 

"Haven't  you  got  a  boy  you  can  break  in?" 

"You  do  not  understand  the  Piute,"  said 
John  sadly.  "This  Gr.  Washington  Delaware, 
aforesaid,  was  the  only  one  of  his  kind.  He 
was  almost  as  smart  as  a  J.  Fenimore  Cooper 
Indian.  He  was  eighty  per  cent,  of  the  team. 
It  will  take  the  rest  of  my  life  to  develop  his 
successor." 

"H-m-m,"  said  Frankie  thoughtfully.  "A 
second-baseman,  eh!  Suppose  now,  John, 
Heaven  should  send  you  a  cracking  good  Injun 
infielder — a  better  man  than  G.  Wash.  Would 
there  be  any  dough  in  it  for  him,  or  is  this  a 
glory  job  entirely?" 

"If  we  could  lick  that  Reno  bunch,"  said 
John,  "there  will  be  plenty  of  both.  Money  is 
no  object.  We  have  a  United  States  Mint 
down  the  street,  and  the  grateful  citizens  of 
Carson  would  dynamite  it.  But  why  raise  false 
hopes?" 

"Take  a  good  look  at  me,  John."  Frankie 
was  away  out  on  the  edge  of  his  chair.  "Note 
these  high  cheek-bones,  these  classic  features, 
these  dark,  soulful  eyes,  and  this  coat  of  tan.  I 
was  the  star  of  the  college  dramatic  club  last 
season,  John.  'Strongheart'  was  the  piece; 
and  while  I  do  not  wish  to  heave  hyacinths 
at  myself,  Bob  Edeson  hasn't  got  a  thing  on 
me  at  the  Injun  stuff.  And  as  for  second- 
basing — 

"You?"  said  John.    "You?" 
[43] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


"Me!"  said  Frankie.  "Little  old  me!  We 
need  the  money,  John.  Dress  me  up  in  beads, 
feathers,  and  moccasins  if  you  want  to.  I'll 
cover  that  second  pillow  as  it  hasn't  been  cov 
ered  in  these  parts  for  lo,  these  many  moons !" 

"By  thunder!"  said  John.  "I  believe  you 
could  do  it!" 

"I've  got  to  do  it!  We  are  seven  hundred 
miles  from  home,  and  the  walking  is  bad  at  this 
time  of  the  year.  Figure  it  out  for  yourself." 


n 

The  whole  thing  was  settled  that  night  at 
the  Indian  school.  First  came  the  dress- 
rehearsal.  John  had  managed  to  dig  up  a  wig 
at  the  Emporium,  but  it  was  a  tight  fit,  and  we 
had  to  run  the  horse-clippers  over  Frankie 's 
cranium  before  he  could  get  it  on.  Then  came 
the  walnut  stain  and  the  baseball  uniform. 
When  we  were  through  we  stood  off  and  ad 
mired  our  work. 

"If  you'll  remember  to  stand  pigeon-toed," 
said  John,  "you  can  go  down  and  brace  the 
Commissioner  for  your  forty  acres  and  reser 
vation  rights.  At  the  very  worst  you'll  pass 
for  a  half-breed." 

"Part  Injun,  part  engineer,"  said  I,  and 
Frankie  just  missed  me  with  a  right  hook. 

"Listen  now  to  the  scenario,"  said  John. 
"The  money  part  will  be  all  right.  I  have  a 
friend  here  named  Clarke  who  is  a  betting  fool. 
His  father  has  money.  Clarke  was  trimmed 

[44] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


once  by  this  Reno  gang,  and  he  wants 
r-r-revenge.  He  can  get  2  to  1  by  making  a 
trip  to  Reno,  and  if  we  win  he  will  come 
through  with  transportation  back  to  that 
dear  Southern  California  and  two  hundred 
large  iron  men  on  the  side.  Does  that  sound 
reasonable?" 

"Yes,  yes,  go  on!" 

"Henceforth,"  said  John,  "your  name  is 
Running-foot.  You  have  come  in  from  Eureka 
County  to  get  a  snootful  of  summer  education, 
which  will  consist  largely  of  a  study  of  the 
national  pastime  in  all  its  dips,  spurs,  and 
angles.  Bob,  here,  is  an  old  college  pal  of  mine 
who  is  visiting  Nevada  for  his  family's  good. 
Having  been  an  athlete  in  his  day,  and  a  ball 
player,  he  will  help  me  coach  the  team,  pass 
out  the  interviews  to  the  newspapers,  and 
spread  the  salve  generally.  He  is  going  to  be 
the  guest  of  the  city,  but  you  are  going  to  be 
an  Indian  and  stay  out  here  at  the  school." 

Frankie  howled  like  a  wolf.  ' '  But  these  other 
Indians  will  get  on  to  me !"  said  he. 

"They  will  think  you  are  a  half-breed,  and 
let  you  alone." 

"Well,  ain't  that  lovely?"  Frankie  was 
growing  sarcastic.  "What  am  I — a  Shoshone 
or  a  Piute?" 

"You  are  a  Piute.  A  Piute  doesn't  talk 
much.  It  will  help  some  if  you  are  dumb  as 
possible.  I  can  teach  you  a  few  Piute  cuss 
words  to  use  in  case  of  emergency." 

"Begin  right  now!"  said  Frankie. 
[45] 


SCOEE    BY   INNINGS 


The  next  morning  we  had  a  look  at  John's 
Indian  ball-team.  It  really  wasn't  half  bad. 
They  were  all  free  and  healthy  swingers,  and 
the  pitcher  had  control  of  his  fast  ball.  The 
second-baseman  was  the  fly  in  the  gravy. 

"I  can't  stand  this!"  said  Frankie.  "Take 
that  fellow  out  of  there  and  put  me  in ! " 

When  Frankie  began  to  play,  the  other  Piutes 
looked  at  him  with  their  mouths  open.  If  they 
had  any  doubts  about  his  ancestry  they  kept 
them  quiet;  you  can  usually  trust  a  Piute  to 
keep  his  thoughts,  if  any,  to  himself.  Frankie 
covered  the  middle  of  that  infield  like  a  carpet; 
nothing  got  away  from  him,  and  he  actually 
speeded  up  the  Piute  shortstop  by  sheer  force 
of  example.  He  had  them  all  on  their  toes  be 
fore  he  got  through,  and,  mind  you,  he  did  it 
without  opening  his  mouth.  Clarke,  the  man 
with  the  money,  turned  up  during  the  practice 
and  all  but  shed  tears  of  joy. 

The  week  slid  by  nicely  for  me,  but  it  was  a 
tough  period  for  Frankie.  He  had  to  practise 
every  morning,  play  ball  every  afternoon,  be 
stared  at  by  the  multitude,  and  stand  for  a  lot 
of  low-grade  baseball,  without  talking  back  or 
expressing  his  opinions.  But  what  made  him 
sorest  of  all  was  to  have  me,  an  outfielder,  tell 
him  in  pidgin  English  how  second  base  ought 
to  be  played.  He  would  stand  out  there  and 
look  at  me  with  a  fabe  like  a  block  of  wood,  but 
the  things  he  whispered  back  under  his  breath 
were  all  in  pure  United  States. 

The  big  day  finally  came,  and  the  entire 
[46] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


sporting  population  of  Carson  entrained  for 
Reno.  Frankie  wanted  to  ride  with  John  and 
me,  but  we  wouldn't  let  him. 

"You're  a  Piute  now,"  said  I.  "Go  travel 
with  'em." 

"Ungrateful  swine!"  said  Frankie.  "And 
I  'm  doing  it  all  for  you  too ! ' ' 

He  was  certainly  a  sad  object.  John  had 
harnessed  him  into  a  tacky  blue  parade  uniform 
with  red  stripes  down  the  pants,  and  jammed 
a  soldier  cap  over  his  eyes.  He  looked  Piute 
enough  to  fool  anybody.  At  the  depot  one  of 
the  town  sports  slapped  Frankie  on  the  back 
hard  enough  to  make  him  drop  his  baseball 
clothes  and  his  batbag. 

"Hi,  Running- f oot ! "  said  this  enthusiastic 
party.  "Going  to  skin  'em  to-day!" 

Now  if  there  is  anything  that  Frankie  hates 
with  all  the  depths  of  his  soul,  it  is  to  be  wal 
loped  on  the  back  by  a  total  stranger.  He 
rounded  on  the  Carson  sport,  and  there  was 
murder  in  his  eye. 

"Ugh!"  he  grunted.  "White  man  too  dam' 
fresh,  mebbe  so  git  his  block  knocked  off ! " 

That  was  the  only  break  he  made,  for  a  real 
Indian  wouldn't  have  said  anything. 

When  we  arrived  in  Eeno  we  took  him  to  the 
hotel  and  worked  on  him  for  an  hour,  hammer 
ing  it  into  him  that  no  matter  what  happened 
he  was  to  keep  his  mouth  shut  and  play  ball. 
Frankie  always  had  a  habit  of  bawling  out  the 
bleacherites,  and  we  laboured  with  him  on  this 
point  until  we  made  him  so  sulky  that  he 

[47] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


wouldn't  even  speak  to  us.  Then  we  thought 
it  was  safe  to  turn  him  loose  on  the  public. 

We  marched  out  to  the  ball-field  in  a  body, 
Frankie  hemmed  in  by  a  solid  wall  of  real 
Piute,  and  a  mob  of  curious  citizens  swarming 
around  to  get  a  peek  at  him.  True  merit  will 
tell,  even  in  a  horsehair  wig  and  walnut-stain, 
and  the  Eeno  fans  had  heard  that  Eunning-foot 
was  a  cross  between  Lajoie  and  Wagner. 

I  said  ball-field,  and  field  is  right.  Desert 
would  have  been  even  better.  The  sagebrush 
came  right  up  to  the  foul  lines  and  hovered 
around  the  outfield.  There  was  only  one  short 
piece  of  fence  and  that  was  back  of  the  plate. 
A  good,  healthy  drive  wouldn't  have  had 
anything  to  stop  it  but  the  Sierra  Nevada 
Mountains. 

The  Eeno  boys  were  already  on  hand,  and 
our  Piutes  practised  first.  John  had  found  a 
suit  for  me,  and  I  batted  to  the  infield.  The 
boys  looked  pretty  good,  even  to  me.  For  the 
sake  of  the  moral  effect  on  the  Eeno  outfit,  I  had 
our  players  pull  all  the  fancy  stuff  they  knew 
—phantom  doubles  and  plate  pegs  and  the  like 
—and  while  we  had  warned  Frankie  to  key 
down  and  not  attract  too  much  attention  to 
himself,  he  was  the  pivot  on  which  all  the  fast 
stuff  was  turning.  The  Piutes  made  a  deep 
impression  on  the  Eeno  fans,  as  Clarke  found 
out  when  he  went  hunting  for  more  2  to  1. 
They  laughed  at  him,  and  the  best  he  could  get 
was  6  to  5. 

When  the  Eeno  players  took  the  field  for 
[48] 


PIUTE   VS.    PIUTE 


practice,  two  of  the  biggest,  beefiest  Indians  in 
the  world  turned  up  on  the  other  side  of  the 
first-base  line  and  began  heaving  a  new  ball 
back  and  forth.  John  went  blue  in  the  face 
when  he  saw  them. 

"Ben  Beemis  and  Johnny  Williamson!"  he 
gasped. 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  said  I. 

"What's  the  row?"  asked  Clarke.  "They're 
only  Indians,  ain't  they?" 

''Carlisle  Indians!"  said  John.  "These  are 
the  birds  who  starred  all  through  the  East  a 
couple  of  seasons  ago.  The  last  I  heard  of  'em 
they  were  playing  in  the  California  State 
League.  Get  the  Carson  committee  together 
and  enter  a  protest — quick!" 

Well,  we  protested.  We  protested  ourselves 
breathless.  Pete  Evans  did  the  talking  for  the 
Reno  outfit,  and  he  stood  pat  like  a  brick  house. 

"An  Injun  is  an  Injun,  ain't  he?"  said 
Evans.  "Well!  What's  the  difference  be 
tween  your  Piutes  and  my  Piutes  ? ' ' 

"Piutes — hell!"  Clarke  butted  in  here. 
"They're  from  Carlisle!" 

"I  give  you  my  word,"  said  Evans,  "these 
boys  never  saw  Carlisle  unless  it  was  on  a  map. 
And  I'll  bet  you  that  they're  real  Piutes— 
and  leave  it  to  them.  Upstate  Piutes.  They 
come  from  Humboldt  County.  I  know  their 
folks  well.  Now  look  here ;  we  were  willing  to 
cross  the  colour-line  and  play  white  men  against 
Piutes,  and  I  don't  see  where  you  Carson  folks 
can  kick  against  a  Piute  battery.  And  look 

[49] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


here  again:  we're  going  to  play  these  boys  in 
our  line-up  or  else  there  won't  be  any  game." 

And  there  we  were.  John  raved  and  Clarke 
talked  strong  he-words  into  his  collar,  but  they 
had  us.  It  was  two  ringers  against  one. 
Frankie  had  been  hanging  around  the  outskirts 
of  the  argument,  getting  an  earful  and  almost 
exploding  because  he  couldn't  say  anything. 
He  walked  over  to  the  bench  with  me. 

1  'It's  all  right,"  said  he.  "Look  at  that 
Reno  infield!" 

I  looked,  and  my  blood  began  to  come  back 
to  the  surface.  It  was  a  case  of  anybody's  ball 
every  time  it  was  hit,  and  the  wonder  to  me 
was  that  they  hadn't  already  spiked  each  other 
to  death. 

"They've  had  forty  bumping  matches  out 
there  already,"  said  Frankie,  "and  if  they  do 
that  in  practice,  what  will  they  do  in  a  real 
game!  They've  got  no  more  ongsomble  than 
a  Democratic  convention.  They  all  want  to  be 
stars,  and  all  we've  got  to  do  is  hit  the  ball  on 
the  ground  and  let  'em  wrangle  for  it.  It'll 
be  a  cinch ! ' ' 

"Y-e-s,"  said  I,  "but  are  we  going  to  hit  this 
Beemis!" 

"I  am,  you  bet  your  life!"  chirped  Frankie. 
"He's  got  more  smoke  than  a  smelter,  but  he  is 
beginning  to  notice  the  effect  of  rarefied  atmos 
phere  on  his  curve  ball.  It  won't  break  for 
him,  and  he  doesn't  know  why.  If  he  ever  slips 
me  that  groover  I'll  knock  it  into  the  Carson 
Sink;  but  I  don't  know  about  these  Piutes.  If 

[50] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


Beemis  can  get  his  hook  to  working  at  all,  they 
will  jam  all  the  wind  out  of  the  Washoe  Valley. 
For  pity's  sake,  Bob,  go  and  tell  that  pitcher 
of  ours  where  to  put  the  ball  for  these  fellows ! 
Make  it  in  words  of  one  syllable  or  he'll  never 
get  you. ' ' 

I  went  over  and  stood  behind  our  heaver. 
He  looked  about  as  intelligent  as  a  second-hand 
totem-pole,  and  almost  as  big,  but  he  had  some 
thing  and  was  zipping  the  ball  squarely  over 
the  middle. 

"Proud  son  of  a  decaying  race,"  said  I, 
"what  is  your  name?" 

"Jimblaine  Johnson,"  said  he,  and  went 
right  on  pitching. 

"I  will  call  you  Jimblaine  for  short.  Listen 
now  and  try  to  understand.  Throw  every  ball 
as  hard  as  you  can.  Keep  them  high  and  on 
the  outside  corner  for  the  right-handers  and 
high  on  the  inside  corner  for  the  left-handers." 
I  repeated  this  three  times. 

"Why?"  One  awful  thing  about  a  Piute  is 
his  habit  of  treasuring  up  the  English  language, 
letting  go  of  it  a  syllable  at  a  time. 

"Because,"  said  I,  "if  you  do,  most  of  the 
hits  will  go  down  to  Running-foot  and  he  is  a 
baseball-player.  High  on  the  outside;  high  on 
the  inside.  Do  you  think  you  can  remember 
that?" 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Jimblaine. 

"Then  go  over  to  the  bench  and  sit  down  and 
think  about  it.  Don't  think  about  anything 
else.  Can  you  do  that?" 

[51] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


"Uh-huh." 

Jimblaine  put  on  his  sweater  and  went  to 
the  bench,  trying  so  hard  to  think  that  I  could 
almost  hear  the  wheels  go  round. 

1  'Rusty"  Ferguson  called  the  game. 
Eusty  had  been  imported  from  Winne- 
mucca  for  three  reasons.  First,  he  was  neu 
tral;  second,  he  was  a  square,  competent 
umpire;  third,  nobody  could  bluff  him  and  get 
away  with  it.  He  had  a  reputation  for  being 
sudden  in  arguments  of  all  kinds,  and,  as  a 
general  thing,  he  went  on  the  field  heeled  for 
protection.  I  took  a  look  at  the  old  boy  and, 
sure  enough,  there  was  a  bulge  over  either  hip. 

Beemis  and  Williamson  were  announced 
under  some  phony  Piute  names,  there  was  a 
lot  of  cheering  and  sagebrush  comedy,  and  the 
Reno  team  took  the  field.  John,  Clarke,  and 
myself  constituted  ourselves  a  Board  of  Strat 
egy,  with  Frankie  in  an  advisory  capacity  when 
not  on  the  field.  We  thought  the  best  thing  to 
do  would  be  to  let  the  boys  go  up  there  and 
look  at  a  few  while  we  framed  the  method  of 
attack. 

Blacktooth,  our  shortstop,  led  off.  He  swung 
so  hard  at  the  first  ball  that  we  could  hear  him 
grunt  clear  over  on  the  bench.  Beemis  came 
back  with  another  curve  and  Blacktooth  swung 
again,  missing  the  ball  not  less  than  two  feet. 
Then  he  stood  still  and  let  a  straight  fast  one 
cut  the  heart  of  the  plate  for  a  third  strike. 

''What  did  I  tell  you!"  said  Frankie. 
"  Beemis  will  have  all  these  birds  blowing  their 

[52] 


PIUTE   VS.    PIUTE 


noses  to  keep  his  smoke  out  of  their  eyes!" 

The  next  batter  fouled  out,  which  brought 
Frankie  to  the  plate.  Now  Frankie  was  always 
a  tough  man  for  a  pitcher  to  work  on.  He 
stood  up  there  with  a  James  Edward  Britt 
stance,  as  we  golfers  say,  and  it  wasn't  any  use 
putting  them  an  inch  inside  or  an  inch  outside ; 
he  wouldn't  go  after  'em.  They  had  to  be  over 
for  him. 

Beemis  tried  him  with  a  hook  outside,  to  see 
if  he  would  ''fish."  Frankie  stood  still  and 
laughed  at  him.  Beemis  tried  one  inside,  and 
Frankie  let  it  go  for  another  ball.  The  next 
one  was  a  groover,  and  Frankie  called  the  turn 
on  it ;  he  had  been  praying  for  that  fast,  straight 
ball,  and  he  piled  into  it  regardless  of  expense. 
The  shortstop  just  managed  to  get  out  of  the 
way  of  the  drive,  and  a  good  thing  for  him  that 
he  did.  Frankie  reached  second  on  the  hit. 

I  was  afraid  that  he  would  slop  over  as  soon 
as  he  got  on  the  bases,  and  he  did.  He  began 
to  yell  at  Beemis — in  perfectly  good  English. 
"You  a  Piute?  You're  a  Siivash,  that's  what 
you  are!  A  Siwash!  Warm  up  another 
pitcher !  Warm  up  two  or  three  pitchers ! ' ' 

It  was  lucky  for  us  that  the  Carson  fans 
were  making  a  lot  of  noise  at  the  time.  Old 
John  was  coaching  behind  third,  and  finally 
managed  to  flag  Frankie,  but  he  couldn't  muffle 
the  boy  entirely — not  with  a  possible  run  in 
sight.  Frankie  switched  to  Piute,  and  he  had 
learned  a  lot  of  it  in  ten  days.  He  gave  Beemis 
his  entire  vocabulary,  but  it  was  breath  wasted. 

[53] 


SCOEE   BY   INNINGS 


Scarface,  our  next  batter,  took  three  terrific 
slams  at  Beemis's  curve  and  the  inning  was 
over,  so  far  as  we  were  concerned. 

I  chased  Jimblaine  nearly  into  the  diamond. 
''High  up  on  the  outside  for  the  right-handers; 
high  up  on  the  inside  for  the  left-handers.  Can 
you  remember  that?'* 

"Uh-huh." 

I'll  give  Jimblaine  credit.  He  did  remember 
it.  I  doubt  if  he  remembered  anything  else. 
He  kept  his  fast  ball  whistling  high  and  over 
the  corners,  and  the  only  Eeno  man  who  hit 
it  into  the  diamond  sent  it  straight  at  Frankie. 
Our  little  bogus  Piute  dug  it  out  of  the  dirt 
with  one  hand  and  beat  the  runner  a  city  block. 

The  next  man  fouled  to  the  catcher,  and  the 
third  man  struck  out.  We  felt  somewhat  en 
couraged,  and  the  Board  of  Strategy  held  a 
second  meeting.  How  to  get  at  Beemis  was  the 
point  under  discussion. 

Eight  here  I  want  to  hand  that  big  Carlisle 
buck  a  nosegay — and  wherever  he  is,  I  hope  it 
will  choke  him.  Counting  Clarke,  there  were 
four  of  us  matching  wits  with  Beemis,  but  at 
no  stage  of  the  game  did  we  have  anything  on 
him  when  it  came  to  baseball  strategy.  He  was 
certainly  there  with  the  immediate  perception 
and  the  counter-irritant.  Pitching  against  the 
best  grey  matter  of  the  Eastern  universities 
had  sharpened  his  low,  native  cunning  to  a 
razor  edge. 

I  had  the  first  brilliant  idea — that  is,  it  would 
have  been  brilliant  if  it  had  worked. 

[54] 


PIUTE   VS.    PIUTE 


"Why  not  start  bunting  on  Beemis?"  said  I. 
"All  the  boys  have  got  to  do  is  meet  that 
speed  and  dump  the  ball  anywhere  between  the 
lines.  Get  that  Reno  infield  to  going  after 
bunts  and  they'll  bump  each  other  off  the  lot." 

"Noble  head!"  said  John.  "Parker  Jones, 
you're  elected.  Go  up  there  and  bunt.  Every 
body  bunt!" 

Now  there  is  another  distressing  thing  about 
a  Piute  ball-player.  Start  him  out  from  the 
bench  with  orders  to  do  a  certain  thing  and  he 
will  do  it,  no  matter  what  happens.  He  takes 
his  instructions  as  sacred  and  final,  and  you  can 
yell  your  head  off  at  him  from  the  bench.  He 
won't  even  look  around. 

Beemis  took  one  look  at  Parker  Jones,  strid 
ing  up  there  with  his  bat  choked  short  and  the 
light  of  a  great  purpose  shining  in  his  eyes. 
Beemis  knew  that  he  had  been  told  to  bunt,  and 
what  is  more,  he  knew  that  Parker  Jones  would 
bunt  at  everything — high,  low,  Jack,  and  the 
game. 

Metaphorically  speaking,  Beemis  put  his 
groove  ball  back  in  his  pocket  with  his  eating 
tobacco  and  sent  up  a  nice  wide  hook  on  the 
outside.  Parker  Jones  bunted  at  it.  Beemis 
sent  up  two  more  of  'em,  and  Parker  Jones 
bunted  earnestly,  stoically,  and  ignorantly — 
bunted  at  balls  that  he  couldn't  have  reached 
with  a  telegraph-pole.  Then  he  came  back  to 
the  bench,  perfectly  satisfied. 

Rainwater  was  next,  and  we  managed  to 
make  him  comprehend  that  he  was  not  to  ad- 

[55] 


SCOEE    BY    INNINGS 


vertise  his  intentions  on  the  way  to  the  plate. 
After  Rainwater  had  passed  on,  trying  to 
dump  a  ball  that  wouldn't  have  gone  any 
where  but  foul,  even  if  he  had  hit  it,  Frankie 
exploded. 

"Why  don't  they  switch,  and  take  a  crash  at 
that  curve?  Tell  'em  to  mix  it  up,  John!" 

"Never  tell  a  Piute  to  mix  'em  up,"  said 
John.  "Never  tell  a  Piute  but  one  thing  at  a 
time.  Give  him  two  things  to  think  about  and 
you  short-circuit  his  mental  dynamo.  The  noble 
savage  of  these  parts  is  not  geared  for  the 
reverse.  What  shall  we  do  now?" 

' 'I've  got  it ! "  The  idea  hit  Frankie  so  hard 
that  it  almost  bounced  him  off  the  bench. 
"I've  got  it!  Send  'em  up  there  to  wait 
Beemis  out.  He  has  just  come  from  the  sea- 
level,  and  if  we  can  make  him  pitch  a  lot  of 
balls  to  every  man,  the  altitude  is  sure  to  get 
him  along  about  the  sixth  inning.  He'll 
blow  up!" 

"By  the  nine  Trojan  gods!"  exclaimed  John. 
"Frankie,  you're  a  wizard!  From  the  looks  of 
that  awning  in  front  of  Beemis,  he's  had  a 
pretty  soft  summer  vacation.  He  is  away  out 
of  condition.  He  will  begin  to  feel  the  alti 
tude  and  that  Pacific  Street  steam  beer  pretty 
soon." 

While  we  were  talking,  Wendell  Phillips 
McGee,  our  right-fielder,  was  conscientiously 
bunting  our  half  of  the  inning  to  a  close.  He 
didn't  know  anything  about  a  switch  in  the 
plan  of  attack.  It  wouldn't  have  made  any 

[56] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


difference  if  he  had.  He'd  heard  John  say 
"Everybody  bunt!" 

Reno  didn't  get  a  man  on  in  her  half  of  the 
second,  and  in  the  third  up  went  Franklin 
Pierce  Gonzales  with  orders  to  wait,  wait,  and 
keep  on  waiting  until  the  cows  came  home,  or 
words  to  that  effect.  The  only  thing  we  for 
got  to  tell  him  was  to  take  a  good  healthy  crash 
at  the  third  strike. 

"We've  got  a  mile  of  altitude  working  for 
us,"  said  John.  "That  ought  to  help  some." 

' '  I  wish  it  was  two  miles ! ' '  said  Clarke.  "  I  'd 
feel  safer." 

Beemis  threw  Franklin  Pierce  a  hook  to  start 
with.  It  ,was  a  foot  outside  and  the  Piute 
didn't  turn  a  hair.  He  stood  there  with  his  bat 
wrapped  around  his  fool  neck,  as  if  he  didn't 
intend  to  take  it  down  all  season.  Beemis  gave 
him  a  lingering  look,  as  if  to  say:  "Do  my  eyes 
deceive  me?  No  bunting?  Let  me  make  sure." 

He  threw  another  hook,  a  little  closer,  but 
still  far  enough  away  to  be  called  ball  number 
two.  Not  a  sign  of  life,  and  the  bat  didn't 
move  an  inch.  Right  there  was  where  Mr. 
Beemis  tumbled  to  the  new  method  of  attack 
and  governed,  himself  accordingly;  but  we 
didn't  realise  it  at  the  time.  The  next  three 
came  sizzling  over  the  middle  so  fast  that 
Williamson  had  to  shove  Franklin  Pierce 
away  from  the  plate.  He  was  still  waiting. 

That  put  it  up  to  Jimblaine.  We  thought 
well  enough  of  our  latest  strategy  to  give  the 
Plumed  Knight  waiting  orders,  but  we  im- 

[57] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


pressed  on  him  the  importance  of  swinging  at 
the  big  one  if  it  came  over. 

"Uh-huh.  I  wait,"  said  Jimblaine,  as  he 
left  the  bench. 

He  planted  himself  in  the  batters'  box,  solid 
as  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar.  Any  one  could  have 
told  by  looking  at  him  that  he  expected  to 
remain  there  some  time.  If  he  had  held  a 
bunch  of  wooden  cigars  in  one  hand  and  a  toma 
hawk  in  the  other,  nothing  would  have  been 
added  to  his  general  air  of  permanence. 

Beemis  wasted  only  one  heave  on  Jimblaine, 
probably  to  see  if  he  was  really  alive.  It  was 
a  bean  ball,  with  a  million  dollars'  worth  of 
speed  on  it,  and  our  petrified  Piute  did  not 
move  a  muscle  except  to  wrinkle  his  nose 
slightly  and  smell  of  the  smoke  as  it  went  by. 
An  inch  closer  and  he  wouldn't  have  had  any 
nose  to  wrinkle.  Beemis  then  poured  three 
down  the  groove  in  rapid  succession,  and  Jim 
blaine,  suddenly  remembering  something,  took 
an  awful  crash  at  the  empty  air  after  the  third 
one  was  in  Williamson's  mitt. 

"That  Beemis  is  a  cagey  brute!"  said 
Frankie.  " What's  the  use  of  waiting  him  out 
if  he  won't  work  on  the  batters?  Everything 
is  a  strike,  now.  Blacktooth,  go  up  there  and 
swing  at  anything  you  think  you  can  reach!" 

Beemis  immediately  recognised  the  fact  that 
this  Piute  was  out  for  action,  not  ornament,  and 
switched  to  his  curve  ball,  striking  out  friend 
Blacktooth  with  three  smoky  hooks,  all  in  the 
same  place. 

[58] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


While  Jimblaine  was  holding  the  tail  end  of 
the  Eeno  batting  order  scoreless,  the  Board  of 
Strategy  again  convened. 

"Frankie  bothered  him  with  that  crouch," 
said  John.  "Let's  send  'em  all  up  there  to 
crowd  the  plate.  Nothing  gets  a  pitcher's  goat 
any  quicker  than  that." 

Wilsonsides,  our  third-baseman,  and  a  game 
little  Indian,  led  off  in  the  fourth.  We  told  him 
to  climb  on  top  of  the  plate  and  stay  there.  He 
climbed  on  all  right,  but  he  didn't  stay  long. 
Beemis  almost  knocked  his  head  off  with  the 
first  ball  he  pitched,  and  immediately  raised 
an  argument  with  Ferguson.  Beemis  claimed 
that  Wilsonsides  wasn't  entitled  to  his  base  be 
cause  he  hadn't  made  an  effort  to  get  out  of 
the  way  of  a  pitched  ball,  and,  after  looking  at 
the  book,  Eusty  ruled  that  he  was  correct. 

That  busted  our  Strategy  Board  wide  open. 

"We'll  give  every  man  individual  orders 
after  this,"  said  John.  "In  that  way  we'll 
always  be  one  guess  ahead  of  him,  at  least." 

Frankie  scratched  another  hit  in  the  fourth, 
after  Wilsonsides  had  fanned,  but  Scarface  and 
Parker  Jones  couldn't  bring  him  home. 

The  game  wagged  along  into  the  last  half  of 
the  fifth  without  a  score  on  either  side.  Beemis 
had  quit  using  his  curve  ball,  we  noticed,  and 
was  depending  on  speed,  but  keeping  it  high 
and  close  in  where  our  Piutes  couldn't  get  at  it 
to  advantage.  Jimblaine  was  pitching  a  lot 
better  than  he  knew  how,  on  account  of  follow 
ing  my  instructions  to  the  letter,  and  while  he 

[59] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


couldn't  keep  the  Reno  boys  from  connecting 
occasionally,  he  was  making  them  hit  in  the 
right  direction,  and  Frankie  was  doing  the  rest. 

Running-foot  was  a  revelation  to  the  crowd 
and  a  surprise  to  me.  He  was  covering  two- 
thirds  of  the  Carson  infield,  and  that  wasn't 
all  he  was  doing,  as  we  discovered  when  he 
came  galloping  in  at  the  end  of  the  fifth 
inning. 

"Beemis  is  having  trouble  with  the  old 
super!"  said  he.  "His  arm  hurts  him,  and 
that's  why  he  laid  off  with  his  curve  ball." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  John,  and 
Frankie  nearly  bit  him. 

"How  would  you  know!"  he  barked.  "I've 
got  eyes,  haven't  I?  Williamson  has  been  sit 
ting  next  to  Beemis  on  the  bench  over  there 
and  kneading  his  elbow  for  the  last  ten 
minutes!  I'm  going  to  get  classical  myself. 
Wake  up,  you  Winged  Victories,  and  get  in  the 
game ! ' ' 

It  sounded  almost  too  good  to  be  true,  but  on 
the  strength  of  it  we  managed  to  shoot  a  little 
pep  into  Blacktooth,  going  out  for  his  third 
smack.  We  told  him  he  wouldn't  get  a  hook 
this  time — nothing  but  a  straight  ball — and  to 
pick  on  it  with  all  his  might,  mind,  and  soul. 
For  a  wonder,  he  did  just  that  thing.  His 
drive  went  whistling  to  left  field  a  mile  a 
minute,  and  if  Blacktooth  had  been  built  for 
speed  instead  of  comfort  he  would  have  made 
the  circuit  instead  of  stopping  at  third. 

Wilsonsides  also  responded  to  treatment, 
[60] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


that  is  to  say,  he  popped  a  cheap  little  twister 
over  Beemis's  head.  It  struck  the  ground  ten 
feet  in  front  of  second  base  and  bounded 
slightly  to  the  left.  Riley,  the  Reno  shortstop, 
tore  after  it.  It  was  his  ball,  no  question  about 
that,  and  maybe  he  would  have  got  it  and  made 
a  play  for  Blacktooth  at  the  plate;  but  just  as 
he  reached  for  it  McHenry,  the  second-baseman, 
ploughed  into  him,  head  on,  full  sail  bent,  and 
carrying  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of 
steam  to  the  square  inch. 

They  both  went  down  for  the  count,  and 
Beemis  had  to  gallop  back  for  the  ball.  He 
recovered  it  in  time  to  hold  Wilsonsides  at 
first,  but  Blacktooth  was  receiving  the  congratu 
lations  of  his  fellow-townsmen  on  scoring  the 
first  run  of  the  game ! 

Beemis  was  sore  as  a  goat.  He  took  time 
out  to  give  Riley  and  McHenry  a  combing  in 
modern  Piute  with  some  Elizabethan  English 
dropped  in  for  spaces.  Riley  seemed  inclined 
to  resent  a  call-down  from  an  Indian,  but  after 
he  took  a  good  close  look  at  Beemis  he  went 
over  and  picked  on  McHenry  instead. 

"They're  fighting  among  themselves !"  yelled 
John  from  the  coaching  line.  "This  is  where 
we  make  a  million  runs ! ' ' 

Frankie  was  next  up.  On  the  first  ball  Wil 
sonsides  was  off  to  a  flying  start  for  a  second. 
There  was  nothing  the  matter  with  William 
son's  peg.  It  went  down  there  like  a  rifle- 
bullet  and  would  have  caught  the  best  base- 
runner  in  the  world  with  yards  to  spare.  Riley 

[61] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


and  McHenry,  still  jawing  at  each  other,  started 
from  opposite  sides  for  the  bag — started  for 
it,  that  was  all. 

At  the  same  instant  they  seemed  to  recall 
what  had  happened  to  them  the  last  time  they 
met — and  both  stopped  dead  in  their  tracks. 
The  ball  didn't  stop,  and  neither  did  Wilson- 
sides.  He  reached  third  base  standing  up,  and 
everything  that  Beemis  had  said  to  Riley  and 
McHenry  was  sweet  and  soothing  compared 
with  the  conversational  blue  vitriol  that  boiled 
up  out  of  the  depths  of  Williamson's  aboriginal 
soul. 

And  there  wras  little  Frankie,  waiting  at  the 
plate,  in  the  dead  storm  centre,  with  lightning 
striking  all  around  him.  I  can't  understand  to 
this  day  how  he  kept  out. 

Beemis  finally  steadied  himself  and  sent  up 
a  fast  ball.  Quick  as  a  flash,  Frankie  short 
ened  his  bat  and  bunted  toward  first.  It 
wasn't  the  proper  play,  but  he  said  afterward 
that  he  thought  if  he  bunted  down  in  that  direc 
tion  the  big  truck-driver  who  was  playing  first 
for  Reno  might  run  into  Beemis  and  break  his 
neck. 

The  ball  was  in  Beemis 's  territory,  and  he 
went  lumbering  over  to  field  it.  Sure  enough, 
the  truck-driver,  coming  head  down  and  tail  up, 
crashed  into  him  from  the  rear.  The  first- 
baseman  went  flat  on  his  back  and  Beemis  was 
staggered  slightly,  but  he  scooped  up  the  ball 
and  turned  to  throw  to  the  plate.  Seeing  that 
he  was  too  late  for  Wilsonsides,  he  whirled  and 

[62] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


cut  loose  with  all  he  had  in  the  direction  of 
first  base. 

Now,  according  to  the  way  baseball  is  played 
on  the  Atlantic  seaboard,  when  the  first-base 
man  is  drawn  in  toward  the  plate  the  second- 
baseman  covers  the  bag  for  him.  Beemis  had 
precedent  on  his  side  as  well  as  tradition,  but 
McHenry,  with  troubles  of  his  own,  was  stand 
ing  flat-footed  fully  sixty  feet  away  and 
Beemis 's  heave  went  sailing  out  into  the  wide, 
wide  world.  Frankie  heard  the  ball  whistle 
between  his  shoulder  and  his  ear,  saw  it  kick 
up  a  puff  of  alkali  dust  in  the  distance,  and 
rounded  first  base  like  a  scared  jackrabbit. 

To  make  a  short  story  of  it,  the  right-fielder 
couldn't  find  the  ball  in  the  sagebrush  and 
Frankie  came  all  the  way  home! 

What  with  the  jubilee  and  the  grand-right- 
and-left  on  the  Carson  side  of  the  field  and  the 
howls  of  the  wounded  and  dying  on  the  Reno 
side,  there  was  quite  an  interlude,  during  which 
Benjamin  Beemis  gathered  his  infield  around 
him  and  delivered  a  brief  but  burning  address. 
There  must  have  been  virtue  in  what  he  said 
or  the  way  he  said  it,  for  Reno  took  a  brace  and 
retired  Scarface,  Parker  Jones,  and  Rainwater 
in  a  row. 

Our  joy  was  soon  dead.  We  held  them  in 
the  sixth,  but  in  the  seventh  Jimblaine  got  gay 
and  tried  to  keep  the  ball  too  close  inside  for 
the  left-handers  and  hit  two  of  them  in  a  row 
— hit  them  with  two  men  out,  at  that.  This 
gave  Williamson  his  first  chance  to  come  up 

[63] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


with  men  on  the  bases,  and  his  worst  enemy 
cannot  deny  that  he  made  the  most  of  it.  He 
dug  his  spikes  into  the  ground  and  hit  the  first 
ball  that  Jimblaine  offered  him — hit  it  to  left 
centre — hit  it  at  least  a  mile ;  a  nice,  low  drive 
that  started  three  feet  from  the  ground  and 
kept  climbing  and  climbing  as  if  it  never  in 
tended  to  come  down. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  know  whether 
it  did  or  not.  The  outfielders  didn't  find  it. 
Yes,  a  home  run  and  a  mighty  big  one;  big 
enough  to  tie  the  score  and  transfer  the  jubilee 
to  the  other  side  of  the  field.  Frankie  rushed 
over  and  tied  his  shoestring  in  the  pitcher's 
box,  and  after  some  coddling  Jimblaine  man 
aged  to  get  Beemis  and  end  the  inning. 

When  the  team  came  in  to  the  bench  I  hopped 
the  Plumed  Knight  for  the  good  of  his  soul,  and 
all  he  could  say  for  himself  was  that  he  had 
hurt  his  arm.  Frankie  did  most  of  the  talking 
for  the  Piutes.  He  ripped  and  ramped  and 
raved  in  all  the  languages  he  knew,  living  and 
dead,  but  he  couldn't  prod  any  spirit  into  those 
miserable  aborigines.  They  sat  there  with 
their  heads  in  their  laps,  grunting  at  each 
other. 

The  eighth  and  ninth  innings  saw  the  score 
still  tied,  thanks  to  Frankie 's  desperate  de 
fence.  They  came  within  an  ace  of  getting  us 
in  the  ninth  when,  with  Swanson  on  third  base, 
and  only  one  man  out,  McHenry  hit  a  terrific 
line  drive  a  little  to  the  right  of  second.  I 
could  see  the  transportation  and  the  two  hun- 

[64] 


PIUTE   VS.   PIUTE 


dred  bucks  going  out  over  that  infield  a  mile  a 
minute,  but  Frankie  shot  through  the  air  like  a 
skyrocket,  made  a  blind  stab  with  his  bare  hand 
— and  the  ball  stuck  in  it.  He  tossed  to  Wil- 
sonsides,  doubling  Swanson,  and  the  yell  which 
started  on  the  Eeno  side  crossed  to  ours  and 
stayed  there.  Frankie  came  in  to  the  bench, 
wabbling  slightly  on  his  feet  and  blowing  on 
his  fingers. 

"Good  boy!"  cried  Clarke,  putting  his  arm 
around  him.  "Good  boy!  Win  or  lose,  you 
get  the  transportation  anyway!" 

"Take  your  hands  off  me!  Let  me  alone!" 
Frankie  turned  on  Clarke  and  abused  him  like 
a  pickpocket.  He  had  been  carrying  eight  fat 
Piutes  on  his  back  all  the  afternoon,  and  the 
strain  was  telling  on  his  nervous  system. 

1 1  You  and  your  Indians ! "  he  raved.  ' '  From 
now  on,  I'm  white,  understand!  White!  How 
many  positions  do  you  think  a  man  can  play  for 
a  measly  two  hundred  dollars?  Get  on  there, 
one  of  you  savages,  and  I'll  bring  you  home! 
A  little  pep,  for  pity's  sake,  a  little  pep!  He 
hasn't  got  a  thing  left  but  a  straight  ball !  Tear 
the  cover  off  it !  A  little  pep ! ' ' 

But  there  wasn't  any  pep  left  in  the  entire 
tribe.  Williamson's  home  run  had  broken  their 
hearts.  Our  first  Piute  scuffled  up  to  the  plate 
and  sent  a  feeble  little  foul  to  the  first-baseman, 
and  there  being  nobody  handy  to  run  into  him, 
the  truck-driver  caught  it.  The  second  man 
struck  out  on  straight  balls.  Frankie  was 
right:  by  this  time  Beemis  was  a  very  weary 

[65] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


buck.  He  didn't  have  a  thing  left  but  his  re 
turn-trip  ticket,  his  hope  of  a  bright  immor 
tality,  and  the  ghost  of  his  fast  ball.  Not  a 
sign  of  a  hook;  not  even  a  wave. 

"Gee,  but  he's  slow!"  said  Frankie  to  me, 
before  he  left  the  bench.  "I'm  going  to  take  a 
round-house  wallop  at  the  first  thing  I  see  and 
run  hog- wild  on  the  bases.  It's  our  only 
chance ! ' ' 

He  picked  out  a  long,  heavy  bat,  suitable  for 
the  kind  of  a  swing  technically  known  as  a 
Moriarity,  and  stepped  up  to  the  plate  with  his 
teeth  set.  The  Carson  rooters  cheered  him,  but 
he  didn't  hear  them.  He  was  listening  to  some 
thing  that  Williamson  was  saying  to  Beemis. 

"Here  comes  that  little  rat  again,  Ben.  Let's 
kill  him!" 

Of  course  that  was  an  attempt  to  get 
Frankie 's  goat — a  dangerous  game  to  play  with 
the  little  man.  If  ever  there  was  a  natural- 
born  herder  of  angoras,  it  was  Frankie.  He 
went  right  back  at  them. 

"Let  the  big  stiff  try  it!"  he  howled,  dancing 
up  and  down.  "Go  ahead,  both  of  you! 
Start  something!  I'll  make  that  yellow-bellied 
pitcher  quit  like  a  dog,  the  same  as  he  did 
in  the  last  game  against  the  Pennsylvania 
'Varsity!  Come  on!  Start  something,  if  you 
dare ! ' ' 

Now  after  pitching  all  afternoon  to  a  suc 
cession  of  dumb  Piutes,  Beemis  was  entirely 
unprepared  for  such  a  blast  of  news  from  home. 
Frankie  was  in  the  last  ditch  and  fighting  with 

[66] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


all  the  weapons  at  his  command — absolutely 
and  irrevocably  white.  Williamson  saw  that 
Beemis  was  upset  by  this  foul  slander  and, 
fearing  that  Frankie  would  follow  it  up,  tried 
to  distract  his  attention  and  drew  a  little  news 
from  home  on  his  own  account. 

"What  are  you  horning  in  here  for?"  said 
Frankie.  "The  reason  they  kicked  you  off  the 
Carlisle  football  team  was  because  you  showed 
a  streak  as  wide  as  the  Mississippi  Kiver! 
Give  me  any  more  of  your  lip  and  I'll  bust 
you  on  the  head  so  hard  that  the  echo  will 
make  you  deaf  for  a  week!" 

Then  Frankie  opened  up  on  the  umpire. 
"Tell  that  big  quitter  to  begin  pitching,  or  call 
balls  on  him!" 

Beemis  laughed  a  lop-sided  sort  of  a  laugh, 
and  up  came  the  ball,  with  all  the  speed  he 
could  muster,  as  straight  as  a  banjo  string. 
Frankie  stepped  out  to  meet  it,  swinging  that 
long  bat  with  every  ounce  he  had  left.  He 
nailed  that  cripple  squarely  on  the  equator,  and 
as  he  swung  the  least  little  bit  early,  he  pulled 
it  down  the  third-base  line  like  a  white  streak. 
The  ball  struck  beyond  the  bag  in  fair  territory, 
skidded  a  few  times,  and  jumped  to  the  left, 
winding  up  in  a  nest  of  Carson  rooters  and 
sagebrush. 

Well,  speaking  of  speed!  Beemis  had  one 
glimpse  of  little  old  Frankie,  lying  down  close 
to  the  ground  and  pawing  dirt  in  a  way  to  make 
Arthur  Duffy  resemble  a  ten-ton  truck — and 
then  that  big  Carlisle  pitcher  let  out  a  snort 

[67] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


and  started  after  the  ball  himself.  He  didn't 
have  any  confidence  in  his  third-baseman  or  his 
left-fielder  either,  and  he  realised  that  retriev 
ing  the  pill  in  that  tangle  of  arms  and  legs  was 
going  to  be  a  job  for  a  strong,  ruthless  party 
with  the  instincts  and  training  of  a  full 
back. 

Frankie  ran  and  Beemis  ran — two  bogus 
Piutes  pounding  the  grit  for  a  piece  of  the 
winners'  end,  and  not  a  nickel  for  second 
money!  I  wouldn't  have  believed  that  Beemis 
had  as  much  speed  as  he  showed.  He  was  a 
slow,  heavy  starter,  but  when  he  got  going  I 
knew  why  he  had  been  such  a  demon  in  the 
scattered  football  field. 

As  Frankie  took  his  turn  for  second  he  flashed 
the  general  situation — the  ball  in  the  crowd  and 
three  Eeno  players  heading  for  it.  He  let  out 
another  link  or  two  and  went  around  second  so 
fast  that  if  he  hadn't  been  doubled  over  he 
wouldn't  have  stayed  on  the  ground  at  all. 
Just  then  into  that  bunch  of  fans  went  Beemis, 
two  hundred  pounds  of  hard,  red  thunderbolt 
with  spikes  on  it. 

Naturally,  those  Carsonites  didn't  help  him 
any.  They  didn't  get  out  of  his  way  or  hand 
him  the  ball,  or  anything  like  that.  It  was 
the  third-baseman  who  found  it,  but  Beemis 
wouldn't  trust  him  to  make  the  peg  and  grabbed 
the  ball  away  from  him.  Then  he  had  to  kick 
himself  out  of  the  mess  and  jump  into  the  open 
to  set  himself  for  the  throw.  By  this  time 
Frankie  was  straightening  out  for  home. 

[68] 


PIUTE   VS.    PIUTE 


I  was  watching  him  come,  and  when  I  heard 
the  yelling  suddenly  die  away,  I  knew  the  play 
was  going  to  be  close.  Frankie  knew  it  too — 
and  there  in  front  of  him  was  Williamson, 
straddling  the  line,  legs  braced  for  the  shock, 
and  hands  out  for  the  ball.  The  ball  was  com 
ing  too.  It  must  have  wrenched  that  sore  arm 
of  Beemis's,  but  it  was  a  Jim-dandy  of  a  peg, 
neither  too  high  nor  too  low,  but  just  exactly 
right,  and  fairly  burning  the  wind  with  its 
speed. 

"Slide,  Frankie!    Slide!" 

Just  as  I  yelled,  he  left  the  ground  with  a 
head-first  dive,  straight  for  the  gap  between 
Williamson's  legs  and  the  plate  beyond.  He 
came  hurtling  through  the  air  like  the  last 
sinner  hitting  it  up  for  the  pearly  gates  at 
11.59  P.M.,  and  the  ball  got  there  at  the  same 
time.  As  Frankie 's  head  and  shoulders  shot 
through  the  gap,  he  reached  out  and  hooked 
Williamson's  left  ankle  with  his  right  elbow, 
wrenching  the  big  redskin  half  around  and  jar 
ring  the  ball  out  of  his  hand.  Williamson  made 
a  wild  snatch  for  it  as  he  was  falling,  but  got 
a  Piute  cap  and  a  handful  of  horsehair  instead 
and  came  down  on  top  of  Frankie  like  a  thou 
sand  of  brick.  And  there  was  our  noble  hero, 
with  his  wishbone  jammed  into  the  plate,  safe 
—all  but  his  scalp ! 

Williamson  was  rather  stunned  at  first.  He 
looked  at  the  wig,  he  ran  his  fingers  through 
Frankie 's  brown  bristles,  he  held  up  the  wig  so 
that  everybody  could  see  it — and  the  next  thing 

[69] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


I  knew  he  was  trying  to  crack  Frankie's  skull 
by  hammering  his  head  on  the  ground. 

That  started  it.  John  and  Clarke  went  tear 
ing  to  the  rescue,  backed  up  by  about  a  thou 
sand  Carson  rooters,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
Reno  fans  came  down  with  a  roar.  The  Carson 
people  wanted  blood  on  account  of  the  unpro 
voked  assault  upon  Running-foot  by  an  Indian 
three  times  his  size,  and  the  Reno  folks  had  seen 
the  wig  and  were  after  Frankie.  I  never  saw 
trouble  come  quicker  or  more  unanimously.  It 
was  just  slam !  bang !  biff !  on  all  sides  of  us.  I 
broke  through  to  where  John  and  Clarke  were 
fighting  on  either  side  of  Frankie,  who  was 
doing  some  fighting  himself,  and  there  was 
Rusty  Ferguson,  his  nose  bleeding,  his  hair 
standing  on  end,  and  both  arms  working  like 
flails. 

"Hell  is  coughing  for  fair!"  he  yelled. 
"Make  for  the  fence,  boys!" 

He  led  the  way,  and  we  fell  in  behind,  using 
the  old  straight-line  buck  formation  and  upper- 
cuts.  The  Reno  folks  hated  to  see  us  leaving 
and  charged  our  rear.  Put  me  down  as  agree 
ing  with  General  Robert  E.  Lee  that  a  well- 
fought  retreat  is  a  man's-size  job.  Rusty 
Ferguson  and  John  Holderman,  on  the  showing 
they  made,  ought  to  be  generals  in  the  army, 
and  not  one  of  us  would  be  below  the  rank  of 
colonel. 

We  got  to  the  fence  at  last,  put  our  backs  up 
against  it,  and  for  the  first  time  I  had  a  general 
view  of  the  battlefield.  The  two  ball  teams 

[70] 


PIUTE    VS.    PIUTE 


were  having  a  fight  of  their  own  over  by  the 
Carson  bench,  and  every  Carson  man  had  a 
Eeno  man  wrapped  up  with  him  in  a  true- 
lovers'  knot.  The  Reno  surplus  was  menacing 
our  front  and  getting  ready  to  charge  us  again. 

"I've  got  to  stop  this!"  said  Rusty,  hopping 
up  on  a  dry-goods  box. 

Out  came  his  two  forty-some-odds,  and  he 
let  drive  at  the  sun  a  couple  of  times,  just  to 
call  attention  to  himself. 

There  was  a  sudden  pause  in  the  hostilities, 
guns  being  regarded  as  serious. 

Baseball  crowds  fight  hard  when  they  fight, 
but  not  to  kill. 

"That'll  be  all  now!"  roared  Rusty,  in  the 
lull.  ' '  I  '11  let  drive  at  the  first  man  that  swings 
a  punch !  Quit  it ! " 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  about  that  second- 
baseman!"  yelled  Pete  Evans. 

"  Yes !    Yes !    What  about  him  ? " 

Rusty  cleared  his  throat  and  rendered  a 
decision,  the  like  of  which  was  never  known  in 
baseball;  but  it  was  sound  sense,  and  besides, 
he  had  the  hardware  in  his  hands  to  back 
it  up. 

"As  I  understand  it,"  he  bawled,  "Pete 
Evans  is  kicking  on  the  Carson  second-baseman 
not  bein'  a  Piute.  He's  as  much  of  a  Piute  as 
that  big  stiff  that  tried  to  kill  him." 

Loud  cheers  from  the  Carsonites. 

"What's  more,  that  Reno  pitcher  ain't  a 
Piute  either.  I  talked  Piute  to  him  all  the 
afternoon  and  he  didn't  understand  a  word  of 

[71] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


it.  That  settles  the  ringer  question.  Now 
then,  Carson  scored  the  fourth  run  and  scored 
it  square,  and  there  wouldn't  have  been  any 
riot  if  the  Eeno  catcher  hadn't  pitched  on  to 
a  kid  half  his  size.  The  game  can't  be  finished 
on  account  of  some  of  the  players  bein'  laid  out 
cold,  but  that  ain't  my  fault  or  it  ain't  the  fault 
of  the  Carson  team,  either. 

"My  decision  is  that  Carson  wins  by  a  score 
of  four  to  three,  and  if  I  hear  of  anybody 
welching  on  bets,  that  party  will  settle  with 
me!" 

That  night  we  were  sliding  down  the  western 
slope  of  the  Sierras  in  the  drawing-room  of  a 
Pullman  car,  and  congratulating  ourselves  on 
being  there. 

"It's  a  pretty  lucky  thing  for  us,"  said  I, 
"that  Williamson  lost  his  noodle  and  took  a 
crack  at  you.  That  was  all  that  saved  us.  I 
never  saw  an  Injun  act  as  crazy  as  he  did." 

"Huh!"  said  Frankie.  "Any  Injun  will  act 
crazy  if  you  bite  a  chunk  out  of  the  calf  of 
his  leg!" 


[72] 


CHIVALRY  IN  CARBON  COUNTY 


HIS  back  was  turned  to  me,  but  the  mourn 
ful  howl  of  as  automobile  siren  caused 
him  to  crane  his  neck  anxiously,  thus 
furnishing  me  with  a  mental  snapshot  of 
his  profile.  It  had  been  three  years  since  to 
gether  we  had  flicked  battered  trout  flies  across 
the  pools  of  the  North  Platte,  forty  miles  south 
of  Fort  Steele,  in  Wyoming.  At  that  time  he 
had  not  worn  the  gaudy  habiliments  of  the 
ridiculous  curbstone  ornament  scornfully  recog 
nised  in  certain  portions  of  the  West  as  a 
"city  cow-puncher,"  yet,  in  spite  of  his  bizarre 
disguise,  I  recognised  Bud  McKinstry  at  once. 
Bud  was  the  friend  of  a  friend  of  a  very 
dear  friend  of  mine,  and  his  home,  when  he  had 
need  of  one,  was  in  the  little  town  of  Saratoga, 
Wyoming,  high  and  dry  among  the  sage  of  Car 
bon  County.  But  what  he  was  doing  in  the 
shade  of  the  Flatiron  Building  on  Manhattan 
Island,  and  why  he  wore  an  enormous  grey, 
flop-brimmed  sombrero  with  a  snakeskin  band, 
a  blue  flannel  shirt  with  a  red-and-yellow  ban 
danna  for  a  tie,  high-heeled  boots,  and  a  few 
other  obsolete  trinkets,  were  things  which  re 
quired  explanation,  if  not  apology. 

[73] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


So  I  tapped  him  gently  upon  the  shoulder, 
and,  " Where  is  the  fancy-dress  ball?"  I 
asked. 

Bud  jumped  when  he  felt  the  weight  of  my 
hand,  and  the  face  which  he  turned  to  me  blazed 
with  sudden  suspicion.  It  changed  immediately 
into  a  mask  of  pleased  surprise. 

"Well,  well!"  he  cried,  wringing  my  hand. 
"It's  you,  ain't  it?  Yes,  it's  you!  And  I 
thought  it  was  a  bunko  steerer!  I  sure  did. 
Well!  L-o-o-ong  time  I  no  see  you,  eh?  Why 
ain't  you  ever  been  out  fishing  again?" 

This,  and  much  more,  came  tumbling  from 
Bud's  lips,  but  when  he  caught  me  examining 
his  regalia  with  a  grin,  the  pleased  ejaculations 
dribbled  away  into  embarrassed  silence.  I  must 
say  for  Bud  that  he  had  the  grace  to  seem 
ashamed  of  himself. 

When  at  home — in  Carbon  County,  Wyoming 
— Bud  clerks  in  a  dry-goods  store,  and  wears 
clothes  which  are,  to  quote  the  catalogue  of  the 
Chicago  mail-order  house,  "the  last,  expiring 
sigh  of  fashion's  latest  whimsy;  elegantly  sim 
ple,  simply  elegant,  cut,  fit,  and  texture  guar 
anteed,"  which  is  to  say  that  the  coats  run  to 
phenomenally  long,  slender  lapels,  buttons  in 
unexpected  places,  and  the  trousers  to  three- 
inch  cuffs. 

"Why  the  masquerade?"  I  demanded.  "Is 
there  a  warrant  out  for  your  arrest?  Have 
you  done  anything  which  you  couldn't  tell  a 
friend?  If  Baldy  Sisson  could  see  you 
now " 

[74] 


CHIVAJLBY    IN    CAKBON    COUNTY 


Bud's  face  shamed  the  bandanna's  flaming 
scarlet. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  ''I  guess  you  ain't  heard  the 
news.  I'm  in  the  show  business  now." 

"And  therefore  can't  look  any  one  in  the 
eye,"  I  said.  "Which  is  it — wild  West,  vaude 
ville,  or  the  moving  pictures?  Out  with 
it!" 

"It's  the  movies,"  said  Bud,  with  a  sickly 
grin.  "Ye-eh,  I'm  a  regular  actor  now,  riding 
the  range  in  New  Jersey  while  Larry  turns  the 
crank.  Quite  a  bunch  of  us  came  over  at  the 
same  time — under  contract.  Two  carloads  of 
broncs.  Some  of  'em  outlaws." 

"Tell  it  to  the  press  agent!"  I  said  sternly. 
"You  ride  an  outlaw!  You?  Bud,  I'm  ashamed 
of  you ! ' ' 

"Shucks!"  said  Bud  uneasily.  "Of  course, 
they  ain't  none  of  'em  what  you  might  call  man- 
eaters,  but  they're  feerocious  enough  for  New 
Jersey." 

"But  I  didn't  know  you  could  ride  at  all!" 
I  persisted  cruelly. 

"Aw,  let  go!"  pleaded  Bud.  "What  folks 
don't  know  won't  never  keep  'em  awake  nights. 
I  can  sit  up  in  the  middle  of  'em  all  right;  I 
got  a  strap  fixed  through  the  saddle,  and " 

"Pulling  leather,  eh?  I'll  certainly  have  to 
write  a  letter  to  Baldy  Sisson!" 

"Don't  you  do  it!"  cried  Bud  quickly. 
"Don't  you!  I  might  want  to  go  back  to  that 
town  some  day.  They  laughed  me  out  of  it 
once,  and  I  wouldn't  wish  to  have  'em  do  it 

[75] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


again.  And,  Baldy,  lie's  the  longest,  strongest 
laugher  of  the  bunch.  You  can  hear  him  plum' 
to  Wolcott  when  he  gets  tuned  up.  Don't  you 
write  him,  if  you  got  any  humanity  in  you  at 
all.  Besides,"  he  continued  lamely,  "I  don't 
want  to  get  my  fool  neck  broke  for  a  measly 
twenty-five  a  week — not  right  in  front  of  a  pic 
ture  machine,  anyway.  You  wouldn't,  either. 
I  never  claimed  to  be  a  Thad  Sowder,  nor  yet  a 
Harry  Brennan,  and — well,  anyhow,  the  strap 
won't  show  in  the  films."  He  paused  and  eyed 
me  with  a  curious  mixture  of  importunity  and 
defiance.  "Don't  you  go  and  write  Baldy!"  he 
repeated. 

"I  won't,"  I  promised,  "if  you  can  give  me 
any  good  excuse  for  traipsing  around  New 
York  in  a  Pawnee  Bill  make-up." 

"Why,  sure!"  said  Bud  hastily.  "That's 
easy!  I  was  working  over  there  in  the  jungles 
this  morning.  Something  went  wrong,  and  they 
gave  us  all  half  a  day  off.  I  didn't  have  no 
time  to  change.  That's  on  the  level.  And, 
anyway"  —was  there  a  trace  of  disappointment 
in  Bud's  voice? — "people  here  don't  seem  to 
pay  any  attention  to  you,  no  matter  what  you 
wear. ' ' 

"Of  course  not,"  I  said.  "Long-haired  men 
and  short-haired  women  create  no  excitement 
in  this  town,  Bud.  These  people  have  seen 
everything  in  the  freak  line,  and  they  wouldn't 
turn  around  to  look  at  you  if  you  walked  up 
Fifth  Avenue  on  your  hands.  They'd  think 
you  were  advertising  Rattlesnake  Oil,  or  ped- 

[76] 


CHIVALKY    IN    CABBON    COUNTY 


dling  souvenirs  from  the  Alamo.  You  look  the 
part." 

"Aw,  dry  up!"  said  Bud  weakly.  "Some 
of  the  boys  are  worse 'n  I  am.  There's  Charlie 
Fothergill.  He  wears  blue  angora  chaps  day 
and  night.  You  remember  Charlie.  He  used 
to  work  in  the  drug  store  at  Saratoga.  The 
bluest  blue  you  ever  saw,  and  a  green  silk  shirt, 
with  a  canary  handkerchief.  That's  going  too 
far,  it  seems  to  me.  Say,  is  there  any  place 
in  this  town  where  a  fellow  can  go  and  see 
things  on  his  afternoon  off?" 

"Why,  yes,"  I  said.  "A  fellow  might  go 
down  to  the  Aquarium  and  give  the  fish  a  treat 
— they've  got  some  Wyoming  trout  down  there 
that  would  probably  be  tickled  to  death  to  see 
even  an  imitation  cow-puncher.  Or  a  fellow 
might  run  out  to  the  Museum  of  Natural  His 
tory,  and  see  the  stuffed  animals.  Then  there's 
the  baseball  game.  You  ought  to  be  interested 
in  baseball;  seems  to  me  you  pitched  for  the 
'Antelopes.'  Come  on  out  to  the  Polo  Grounds 
and  see  the  Giants  and  the  Cubs;  that's  always 
a  fight  worth  the  money." 

"No,  sir!"  said  Bud,  shaking  his  head  vig 
orously.  "Don't  mention  baseball  to  me.  I'm 
off  that  game  for  life."  He  spoke  bitterly  and, 
it  seemed  to  me,  with  a  great  deal  of  unneces 
sary  heat.  "But  for  a  ball  game  I  wouldn't  be 
here.  I'd  choose  the  stuffed  animals  for  mine. 
Lead  me  to  'em!" 

Bud  had  twice  hinted  at  a  story,  but  I  knew 
him  better  than  to  attempt  to  extract  his  con- 

[77] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


fidence,  corkscrew  fashion.  When  time  and 
mood  were  ripe  he  would  tell  me,  and  not  be 
fore,  but  I  believed  I  knew  a  sure  way  to  hasten 
the  ripening  process. 

With  this  end  in  view,  I  carefully  steered  him 
into  that  wing  of  the  museum  which  contains 
the  American  bird  groups,  each  in  a  marvellous 
stage  setting  of  its  own,  where  real  earth,  grass, 
and  foliage  blend  into  painted  canvas  so  skil 
fully  that  the  sharpest  eye  cannot  trace  the 
dividing  line  between  the  real  and  the  un 
real,  and  the  brain  is  tricked  into  impressions 
of  far  horizons  and  deep  vistas  of  open 
country. 

"This,"  said  Bud  disgustedly,  "is  the  bunk! 
D  'you  believe  a  bird  ever  had  a  neck  like  that  I ' ' 
He  indicated  a  flamingo  with  a  jerk  of  his 
thumb.  "Let's  go  back  and  see  old  dinah-what- 
you-may-call  him  again;  him  with  the  bones. 
It  says  on  the  card  that  he  came  from  Wyo 
ming.  If  he  did,  it  must  have  been  before  my 
time.  If  I'd  ever  met  anything  like  that,  ram 
bling  over  them  hills,  I'd  surely  have  taken  the 
pledge." 

"Just  a  minute,"  I  said.  "And  don't  hurry 
so.  You've  got  the  whole  afternoon." 

Then  Bud,  who  was  in  front,  paused  with  a 
gurgle  of  pure  delight. 

"Hey!"  he  called.  "Come  here,  and  look  at 
these  little  old  sage  hens!  Ain't  they  natural, 
though?  Watch  that  fellow  strut !  Say,  that's 
what  I  call  neat.  That's  just  the  way  you  see 
'em  out  in  Carbon  County." 

[78] 


CHIVALRY    IN    CARBON    COUNTY 


"Ever  seen  that  country  before?"  I  inquired 
innocently. 

Bud  fell  back  a  pace,  and  his  eyes  swept  the 
canvas  background. 

"Moses  and  the  prophets!"  he  ejaculated, 
seizing  me  by  the  arm  in  his  excitement.  "Look! 
Ain't  that  Elk  Mountain  over  there?  It  is,  as 
sure  as  you're  a  foot  high!  There's  the  canon 
where  the  trout  creek  comes  down!  Say,  this 
ain't  no  fake;  this  is  the  real  thing!  It's  a 
little  chunk  cut  out  of  God's  country.  It's 
home,  that's  what  it  is — home!  Carbon  County 
right  here  in  New  York !  M-m-m-m-mph !  Oh, 
lordy!" 

My  moving-picture  cow-puncher  sat  down  on 
a  bench  and  babbled  incoherently  to  himself, 
while  his  eyes  took  in  each  faithful  detail  of  a 
well-remembered  scene.  The  artist  had  con 
trived  to  counterfeit  the  deep  crystal  atmos 
phere  of  that  wonderful  land  which  lies  along 
the  ridgepole  of  the  continent,  and,  as  one  sense 
calls  to  another,  to  see  Elk  Mountain  lying  pur 
ple  in  the  distance  was  to  smell  again  the  clean 
wind  of  that  mile-high  country — the  wind  and 
the  odour  of  the  sage. 

From  mutterings  and  ejaculations,  Bud 
passed  into  a  reverie,  chin  in  his  hands.  After 
some  time  he  arose  suddenly,  shook  himself  like 
a  wet  spaniel,  and  started  for  the  exit. 

"Come  on!"  he  said  thickly.  "I  want  to  get 
out  of  this  bird  theatre  as  quick  as  I  can.  Your 
blame'  pinny-poppy  show  has  made  me  home 
sick!" 

[79] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


Under  the  trees  outside  I  waited  for  what  I 
knew  must  come. 

"We've  still  got  time  to  go  to  the  ball  game," 
I  hinted. 

Bud's  language,  in  response  to  this  sugges 
tion,  would  not  be  a  pretty  sight  in  type.  More 
silence. 

"Say,"  demanded  Bud,  "did  you  ever  see  a 
female  baseball  club?" 

I  said  that  I  understood  there  were  such  or 
ganisations,  but  that  I  had  never  seen  one. 
Bud  drew  out  a  sack  of  tobacco  and  a  packet 
of  brown  papers. 

"You're  lucky!"  he  said.  "Wisht  I  never 
had!" 

And  then,  with  the  spell  of  the  sage-brush 
upon  him,  and  a  two-thousand-miles-away  look 
in  his  eyes,  my  New  Jersey  roughrider  opened 
his  heart. 

"Speaking  of  baseball,"  said  he,  by  way  of 
preface,  "that  team  we  had  in  Saratoga  wasn't 
the  softest  in  the  State  by  no  means.  "We 
whaled  the  everlasting  daylights  out  of  every 
thing  between  Green  River  and  Laramie.  Of 
course,  the  Rawlins  bunch  put  one  over  on  us 
when  they  hired  five  professionals  from  Chey 
enne.  They  beat  us  three  to  two  in  eleven  in 
nings,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  'ringers' 
they  wouldn't  have  stood  a  show  in  the  world. 

"One  day  last  June  I  met  Baldy  Sisson  on 
the  street.  He  was  waving  an  envelope,  kind 
of  excitedlike.  Baldy  used  to  run  the  team — 
him  and  Comstock. 

[80] 


CHIVALRY    IN    CARBON    COUNTY 


"  'Say,  Bud,'  says  Baldy,  'I've  got  a  game 
for  next  Saturday!'  and  then  he  opens  up  the 
letter.  Right  across  the  top  of  the  page  it  says, 
in  big,  blue  print:  'Baltimore  Bloomer  Girls' 
Baseball  Club.'  Just  like  that.  Well,  of  course, 
I'd  heard  about  female  ball  clubs  travelling 
through  the  country,  and  giving  a  kind  of  a 
burlesque  on  the  game,  but  none  of  'em  ever 
came  our  way. 

"  'You  ain't  a-going  to  stack  us  up  against 
anything  as  soft  as  that,  are  you?'  I  asks. 

"  'How  do  you  know  they're  soft?'  says 
Baldy.  'They  beat  a  lot  of  teams  in  Colorado. 
And  they  ought  to  be  a  good  attraction.' 

"Well,  that  part  of  it  sounded  reasonable. 
But  there's  a  lot  of  difference  between  a  good 
attraction  and  a  good  show.  Ever  think  of 
that! 

"  'I'm  going  to  telegraph  that  manager  to 
come  running,'  says  Baldy. 

"You'd  be  surprised  to  know  what  an  excite 
ment  was  kicked  up  in  that  town  when  word 
got  around  that  a  she-male  ball  team  was  com 
ing.  In  a  day  or  so  Baldy  got  a  big  roll  of  ad 
vertising  posters  in  the  mail.  All  colours.  On 
the  top  was  a  picture — made  from  a  photograph 
it  was — of  a  girl  in  a  baseball  uniform.  Well, 
not  a  regular  uniform  exactly.  Part  of  it  sort 
of  looked  like  a  skirt  to  me.  Loose  and  bunched 
up  at  the  knee.  Under  the  picture  it  said : 

"  Miss  PANSY  DEMAKR, 

"  The  Peerless  Shortstop  of  the  Baltimore 

Bloomer  Girls'  B.  B.  C. 

[81] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


"You  know  how  a  fellow's  mind  will  get  to 
running  on  photographs  and  things.  The  min 
ute  I  saw  Pansy's  picture  I  was  glad  Baldy  had 
made  the  date  for  us.  She  was  a  bird,  Pansy 
was,  young,  and  considerable  of  a  looker.  You 
can't  fake  up  an  old  girl  so  that  she  looks  like 
sweet  sixteen;  it  shows  through  somehow,  even 
in  a  photograph.  Yes,  Pansy  was  young,  and 
as  cute  as  a  little  sage  rabbit.  I  wasn't  the  only 
one  in  town  that  took  a  shine  to  her.  Curt' 
Mahaffey  stole  one  of  the  posters  and  took  it 
home  with  him. 

"Well,  there  was  other  things  on  the  poster, 
too.  'A  genuine  scientific  exhibition  of  inside 
baseball,'  was  what  it  said,  'as  played  by  the 
leading  female  exponents  of  the  national  game.' 
There  was  a  lot  of  that  kind  of  hog-wash,  and 
then  came  a  string  of  newspaper  write-ups,  and 
not  a  knock  amongst  'em.  Down  at  the  bottom 
was  a  string  of  scores.  According  to  the  pos 
ters,  the  girls  had  cleaned  up  mostly  all  of 
Kansas,  and  by  awful  one-sided  figures  at  that. 
It  got  us  to  thinking. 

"  'You  don't  suppose  this  is  on  the  level,  do 
you!'  says  Henry  Kamphefner,  our  first  base 
man.  'Did  they  beat  all  these  clubs,  or  is  this 
just  an  advertising  fake?  And  them  news 
paper  accounts!  Did  they  pay  for  them,  or 
how?' 

"Well,  we  talked  it  all  over,  and  made  up 
our  minds  that  we  couldn't  afford  to  have  a 
lot  of  bloomer  ladies  travelling  through  Wyo 
ming,  advertising  that  they  had  licked  the  Sara- 

[82] 


CHIVALRY    IN    CAEBON    COUNTY 


toga  'Antelopes.'  That  sort  of  thing  would  set 
the  town  back  ten  years,  and  make  us  the  laugh 
ingstock  of  the  State. 

"  'Here's  how  we'll  do  it,'  says  Jeff  Blood- 
good,  our  catcher.  'We'll  play  these  girls,  all 
right  enough,  and  we  won't  be  any  rougher  with 
'em  than  we  have  to  be.  We'll  hand  them  a 
nice,  polite,  gentlemanly  trimming — say  about 
twenty-five  to  nothing — and  if  they  paste  up 
any  lies  about  us  we'll  sue  for  libel  and  defalca 
tion  of  character.  Anyhow,  we'll  tell  'em  we'll 
sue,  and  that'll  scare  'em.  None  of  these  fly-by- 
night  shows  like  to  get  mixed  up  with  the 
courts.' 

"  'Yes,'  says  Fred  Gilroy,  the  shortstop. 
'We  can  do  that  'r  take  a  poke  at  their  man 
ager.  He's  a  man,  ain't  he?' 

"But  we  decided  that  wouldn't  answer. 
Jeff's  idea  was  the  best. 

"Well,  Saturday  morning  came,  and  most  of 
us  were  down  at  the  depot  to  see  the  bloomer 
troupe  come  in.  I  didn't  hardly  think  they'd 
wear  'em  in  the  streets,  but  Jeff  Bloodgood 
did.  He  said  they'd  do  it  for  the  advertising. 

"As  soon  as  the  train  came  in  sight,  we 
spotted  an  extra  coach — a  Pullman  sleeper  it 
was. 

"'Humph!'  says  Billy  French,  one  of  our 
boys.  'They  put  on  plenty  of  dog,  don't  they! 
Private  car!  You  lose,  Dan!' 

"Dan  McLaurin,  our  second  baseman,  was 
pretty  much  peeved  about  that  private  car,  and 
I  don't  blame  him.  Dan  runs  the  hotel,  and 

[83] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


he'd  been  figuring  on  some  transients.  Had  the 
whole  place  cleaned  up  on  purpose,  and  went 
out  at  daylight  to  catch  a  mess  of  trout  for 
dinner.  I'd  have  been  sore,  too. 

"Well,  we  stood  around  and  watched  'em 
switch  the  Pullman  onto  the  siding  by  the 
depot.  That  car  was  a  regular  rolling  hotel, 
with  a  cook  house  and  everything  complete,  and 
when  Dan  saw  the  smoke  coming  out  of  the 
roof  he  said  he  didn't  care  how  bad  we'd  beat 
'em,  but  he  hoped  it  wouldn't  be  less  than  fifty 
to  nothing. 

"I  got  a  peek  at  one  of  the  bloomer  ladies. 
She  was  setting  by  a  window,  combing  her  hair 
and  fixing  up  a  lot  of  yellow  puffs  and  things, 
and  her  mouth  was  full  of  hairpins.  I  knew 
right  away  that  she  wouldn't  answer  to  the 
name  of  Pansy.  No,  there  wasn't  nothing  deli 
cate  about  that  lady.  Or  young,  either.  Some 
folks  like  these  big  preferential  blondes;  some 
don't.  Me,  I'd  just  as  lieve  their  hair  and  eye 
brows  would  be  the  same  colour. 

"While  we  were  sort  of  standing  around, 
waiting  for  something  to  happen,  the  yellow- 
headed  lady  looked  out  and  saw  us.  You  might 
have  thought  it  would  embarrass  her  some  to  be 
caught  doing  her  hair  in  public  that  way,  but 
this  lady  certainly  wasn't  the  embarrassing 
kind.  She  was  the  sort  that  can  look  straight 
at  a  fellow  until  he  begins  to  wonder  what  there 
is  about  him  that's  so  peculiar. 

"She  opened  the  window  and  stuck  her  head 
out.  I  took  off  my  hat  because  I'm  always 

[84] 


CHIVALRY    IX    CARBON    COUNTY 


polite,  but  she  didn't  seem  to  pay  any  attention 
to  good  manners. 

"  'What's  the  matter  with  you  yaps?'  says 
she,  and  her  voice  was  like  her  face — hard. 
Kind  of  shrill,  too,  like  a  parrot.  'What  are 
you  staring  at,  little  boys?'  she  goes  on.  *  Ain't 
you  ever  seen  a  lady  before?  Or  haven't  you 
got  the  price  to  see  the  game?  This  ain't  no 
free  show,  so  beat  it  while  your  shoes  are  on 
your  feet!  Git!' 

"Some  more  of  the  bloomer  ladies  showed 
up  at  the  windows  and  passed  out  quite  a  line 
of  conversation.  I  didn't  see  Pansy  among  'em, 
so  I  came  away.  Jeff  Bloodgood  said  after 
ward  that  he  stuck  around  and  jollied  'em  back. 
Jeff  always  was  a  liar.  He  couldn't  think  fast 
enough  to  hold  up  his  end  in  a  kidding  match 
with  those  ladies.  Yes,  sir,  they  seemed  to 
know  exactly  what  to  say  that  would  be  the 
hardest  to  answer  right  off  the  reel. 

"Well,  we  went  up  to  Dan's  place  and  talked 
some  more.  We  decided  that  a  real  licking 
might  take  some  of  the  freshness  out  of  the 
bloomer  people.  Then  in  came  Baldy  Sisson 
with  a  big  whale  of  a  man  that  had  a  kind  of 
a  wry  neck.  Baldy  introduced  him  as  the  man 
ager  of  the  girl  team. 

"Of  course,  him  being  a  man,  we  could  talk 
to  him,  and  we  started  in.  I  don't  know  yet 
who  made  the  first  break,  but  all  at  once  out 
comes  a  big  roll  of  bills,  and  the  wryneck  said 
he'd  take  the  short  end  of  any  two-to-one  bet 
ting  that  might  be  flying  around.  He  was 

[85] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


mighty  near  mobbed,  and  I  suppose,  all  told, 
we  dug  up  close  to  two  hundred  dollars.  Dan 
locked  the  money  up  in  the  safe  until  after  the 
game. 

"I  guess  everybody  in  Saratoga  that  could 
walk  turned  out  that  afternoon.  People  came 
from  away  down  by  Tilton's  ranch  and  over  on 
Jack  Creek.  It  was  the  biggest  bunch  I  ever 
saw  at  a  ball  game  in  the  town. 

"We  were  practising,  along  about  two 
o'clock,  when  all  at  once  the  crowd  began  to 
cheer  and  yell,  and  here  came  the  bloomer 
ladies,  walking  two  by  two,  the  big  blonde  out 
in  front.  There  was  a  lot  of  laughing  mixed  up 
with  the  applause  that  I  didn't  quite  under 
stand  at  first,  but  I  mighty  soon  tumbled. 
There,  at  the  tail  end  of  the  line,  was  two  of 
the  biggest  old  battle-axes  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life,  one  of  'em  with  a  wind-pad,  a  catcher's 
mitt,  and  a  mask;  and  the  other  one  with  an 
armful  of  bats.  I  began  to  laugh,  too,  until 
I  noticed  that  the  one  with  the  bats  had  a  wry 
neck;  then  I  got  up  closer.  Both  of  'em  had  on 
bloomers  and  about  forty  dollars'  worth  of 
store  hair,  and  they  were  painted  and  pow 
dered  and  fussed  up  to  beat  the  band,  but  a 
blind  man  could  have  seen  that  those  two 
battle-axes  were  men  dressed  up  in  women's 
clothes ! 

"Well,  there  we  were,  up  against  it.  For  a 
minute  we  didn't  know  whether  to  make  a  kick 
or  not.  Henry  Kamphefner  was  our  team  cap 
tain,  and  he  had  bet  forty  bucks  on  the  game. 

[86] 


CHIVALRY    IN    CAKBON    COUNTY 


"  'Look  at  them  ringers!'  says  Henry.  'May 
be  we  ought  to  call  the  bets  off.' 

"  'Call  off  nothing!'  says  Dan  McLaurin. 
Dan  hadn't  put  up  any  two  to  one,  you  under 
stand.  'We'd  be  joshed  to  death  about  it.  Let 
'em  have  their  gentlemen  friends  for  a  battery 
if  they  want  'em.  The  rest  of  'em  are  women, 
and  if  we  can't  beat  seven  women  and  two  men, 
we'd  ought  to  be  arrested.' 

"That  was  reasonable  again.  I  took  a  look, 
and  there  wasn't  any  question  about  the  rest 
of  the  bloomer  outfit.  Most  of  'em  had  been 
women  so  long  that  there  wouldn't  have  been 
any  excuse  for  mistaking  'em  for  anything  else. 
Some  of  those  bloomer  ladies  must  have  been 
playing  baseball  ever  since  the  war. 

"They  knew  their  business  all  right  enough. 
First  thing  they  did  was  to  scatter  through  the 
crowd  and  take  up  a  collection.  There  wasn't 
any  fence  around  the  ball  grounds,  but  if  any 
of  the  folks  in  the  crowd  thought  they  were 
going  to  see  that  game  for  nothing,  they  had 
another  think  coming. 

"I  was  warming  up  with  Jeff  Bloodgood 
when  I  caught  sight  of  Pansy,  and  forgot  about 
everything  else.  She  was  a  little  late  getting 
on  the  field.  The  posters  hadn't  flattered  her 
a  little  bit;  they  hadn't  even  given  her  all  that 
was  coming.  She  was  just  about  the  neatest, 
modestest  little  trick  a  man  ever  treated  his 
eyesight  to,  and  nothing  like  the  others.  They 
looked  kind  of  loud  in  that  foolish  baseball  uni 
form,  but  Pansy — why,  to  look  at  her,  you'd  say 

[87] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


she  never  ought  to  wear  any  other  kind  of 
clothes !  Slim  and  neat  and  graceful  as  a  cat. 
The  others  looked  big  and  clumsy  beside  her. 

"The  bloomer  ladies  went  through  that 
crowd,  joshing  everybody  right  and  left,  and 
bawling  out  the  cheap  ones  something  scan 
dalous,  but  Pansy,  she  didn't  have  a  word  to 
say.  I  know,  because  I  went  over  and  borrowed 
a  dollar  from  George  Bainbridge,  and  when  she 
came  my  way  I  dropped  it  into  her  cap.  She 
looked  up  at  me  kind  of  surprisedlike,  and  then 
she  smiled.  Gee !  It  gave  me  a  warm  chill  all 
over !  I  remember  thinking  at  the  time  that  it 
was  a  privilege  to  give  money  to  any  lady  as 
pretty  as  Pansy  was.  Did  I  tell  you  she  had 
brown  eyes? 

"Well,  the  bloomer  ladies  didn't  take  much 
preliminary  practice,  but  the  wryneck,  he  got 
out  and  heaved  a  few  to  the  other  fat  he-male, 
and  then  him  and  Henry  Kamphefner  tossed  a 
coin.  The  wryneck  called  the  turn,  and  sent  us 
to  bat  first. 

"Pansy  went  skipping  down  to  short,  the 
rest  of  the  bloomer  ladies  took  their  places, 
and  the  big,  fat  catcher  buzzed  a  couple  down 
to  second  a  mile  a  minute.  Pansy  came  across 
to  the  bag  like  a  big  leaguer,  took  the  throws 
as  pretty  as  you  would  want  to  see,  and  chucked 
'em  back  just  like  a  boy.  My,  how  the  crowd 
cheered  her!  Pansy  was  the  hit  of  the  show, 
right  from  the  start. 

"Martin  Carey  umpired,  and  Fred  Gilroy, 
our  shortstop,  led  off  for  us.  The  wryneck 

[88] 


CHIVALRY    IN    CARBON    COUNTY 


sort  of  uncoiled  himself,  and  broke  a  fast  one 
across  Fred's  letters,  and  all  the  bloomer  ladies 
began  to  chirp. 

"'That's  pitching!'  they  yelled.  ' You've 
got  everything  to-day,  Pearl!  He  couldn't  hit 
you  with  an  ironing  board,  girlie!' 

"Pearl  and  girlie!  What  do  you  think  of 
that  for  gall? 

1 '  Well,  of  course,  that  first  strike  and  all  the 
joshing  he  got  from  the  bloomer  ladies  made 
Fred  mad,  and  he  took  an  awful  wallop  at  the 
next  one.  It  broke  toward  him  this  time,  and 
he  missed  it  a  foot.  That  rattled  him  so  that 
he  stood  still  and  let  Carey  call  the  third  one 
on  him,  and  what  the  bloomer  people  did  to 
Fred  when  he  walked  away  from  the  plate  was 
certainly  plenty.  I've  seen  some  pretty  fair 
single-handed  joshers  in  my  time,  but  the 
bloomer  ladies  had  it  figured  down  to  scientific 
teamwork. 

"  'Ain't  he  the  cute  thing?'  chirps  the  big 
blonde  over  on  first  base.  'I'll  bet  his  best 
girl  saw  him  stand  up  there  like  a  cigar-store 
Indian  and  let  'em  call  a  third  strike  on  him!' 

"  'Mother's  darling  boy!'  squawks  the  old 
lady  over  on  third.  'Don't  let  Hazel  make  you 
angry,  Clarence!' 

"There  was  plenty  more  of  the  same  kind, 
and  the  crowd  laughed  fit  to  bust.  It  was  as 
good  as  a  show  for  them. 

"Pete  Townes,  our  third  baseman,  batted 
next.  Pete  chopped  at  the  first  one,  and  poked 
a  little  foul  over  back  of  first.  The  big  blonde 

[89] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


ran  right  into  the  crowd,  and  made  a  nice  one- 
handed  stab.  All  the  bloomer  ladies  yelled: 
'Nice  work,  Hazel!'  Then  they  whirled  in  on 
Pete,  and  told  him  a  few  things  about  himself. 

"I'd  been  watching  the  wryneck,  and  begin 
ning  to  see  that  we  wasn't  up  against  any 
tapioca.  That  old  fat  boy  was  there!  He  had 
swell  curves,  a  dandy  fast  ball  with  a  nice  hop 
to  it,  and  a  change  of  pace,  and  when  you  come 
right  down  to  it,  that's  all  the  best  of  'em  have 
got — that  and  control,  and  the  wryneck  didn't 
have  no  trouble  putting  'em  where  he  wanted 
'em  to  go. 

"  While  I  was  studying  him,  he  pulled  a 
stunt  on  Charlie  Kennedy,  our  centre  fielder, 
and  the  best  hitter  we  had,  that  made  me  respect 
the  wryneck  more  than  ever.  He  had  a  strike 
on  Charlie  to  begin  with,  and  he  put  another 
one  right  in  the  same  place.  Charlie  took  a 
good  toe  hold,  and  lammed  that  ball  over  third 
base  pretty  near  a  mile  on  a  line.  It  struck 
foul,  though,  and  that  made  two  strikes.  The 
wryneck  saw  that  he  couldn't  afford  to  let 
Charlie  hit  any  more  as  hard  as  that,  and  what 
do  you  think  he  did?  He'd  been  pitching  right- 
handed,  but  he  faced  the  other  way  in  the  box, 
and  lobbed  up  the  third  strike  with  his  left! 
When  you're  all  set  for  right-handed  pitching, 
and  looking  for  a  wide  outcurve,  it  balls  you  up 
something  awful  to  have  the  next  one  break 
from  two  feet  outside  the  plate  and  come  in 
toward  you.  Charlie  was  so  paralysed  that  he 
stood  still,  and  never  even  offered  at  the  ball. 

[90] 


CHIVALRY    IN    CARBON    COUNTY 


I'd  heard  of  pitchers  who  could  do  that  stunt, 
but  I  never  saw  one  before.  Amphibious  pitch 
ers  are  scarce  in  any  man's  country! 

"I  saw  then  that  I  was  going  to  have  to  do 
some  pitching  myself,  and  when  I  walked  out 
into  the  box  I  sort  of  timed  myself  to  meet 
Pansy  on  the  way.  She  gave  me  another  smile. 
I'd  noticed  particular  that  when  all  the  other 
bloomer  people  were  yelling  that  Pansy  kept 
her  mouth  shut,  and  attended  to  business.  That 
made  her  stronger  with  me  than  ever.  I  like 
the  quiet  ones  myself. 

''Well,  of  course,  I  was  out  there  to  show 
those  bottle  blondes  that  they  didn't  have  the 
only  pitcher  on  earth.  Up  came  the  old  third 
baselady.  'Maudie,'  they  called  her.  Two  of 
the  women  were  in  the  coachers'  boxes,  and  as 
soon  as  I  got  my  toe  on  the  slab  they  started 
after  me.  I  usually  stand  that  sort  of  thing 
pretty  good — from  men.  But  what  can  you 
think  of  to  say  to  a  lady  that  wears  bloomers! 
They  opened  up  on  me  for  fair.  They  talked 
about  my  face  and  my  feet  and  the  way  my 
clothes  fit  me.  It  was  fierce.  I  know  my  foot 
is  long,  but  I  take  a  narrow  last. 

"  'Come  on,  Maudie!'  they  squalled.  'Here's 
Oswald,  with  the  big  feet!  He's  out  there  on 
the  hill,  and  he  ain't  got  a  thing  in  the  world 
but  a  chew  of  tobacco  and  a  prayer!' 

"Now,  that's  a  fine  way  for  ladies  to  talk, 
ain't  it? 

"I  didn't  fool  much  with  Maudie.  She 
wanted  to  bunt,  but  I  kept  'em  too  high  for  her, 

[91] 


SCORE   BY    INNINGS 


and  she  never  even  got  a  foul.  Then  came 
Hazel,  the  big  blonde.  I  owed  her  something 
for  what  she  said  down  at  the  depot,  and  I  put 
the  first  one  so  close  to  her  nose  that  she  could 
have  smelled  it  when  it  went  by.  She  was  hug 
ging  the  plate,  anyway,  and  I  wanted  to  drive 
her  back.  Hazel  didn't  scare  worth  a  cent.  She 
shook  her  bat  at  me,  and  danced  up  and  down, 
and  said  if  I  'beaned'  her  she'd  bust  it  over 
my  head.  "What's  more,  I  think  she  meant  it. 

"I  fed  her  the  old  McKinstry  special,  the 
wide  outdrop,  and  she  missed  two  of  'em. 
Hazel  was  no  piker.  She'd  swing  at  anything 
she  could  reach.  I  figured  she'd  be  looking  for 
a  third  one,  so  I  banged  the  ball  straight  over, 
she  shut  her  eyes,  and  popped  a  fluky  little 
'Texas  leaguer'  back  of  first  base.  Pure  luck. 
Hazel  wasn't  built  for  speed,  but  any  fat  lady 
could  have  made  first  on  that  hit.  I  was  mad 
enough  to  fight  until  I  looked  up  and  saw  Pansy 
at  the  plate — Pansy  and  her  cute  little  bat. 

"  'Come  on,  girlie!'  squalled  the  coachers. 
'HereVwhere  we  put  the  rollers  under  Oswald ! 
Get  a  hit,  girlie,  get  a  hit ! ' 

"I  hated  to  do  it,  but  I  slipped  Pansy  one 
over  the  inside  corner  that  nearly  took  Jeff  off 
his  feet.  I  was  going  to  show  her  that  I  was  a 
pitcher  if  I  didn't  do  anything  else.  I  tried  it 
again ;  Pansy  swung  with  all  her  might,  and  the 
ball  came  back  at  me  like  it  was  shot  out  of  a 
gun.  I  just  had  time  to  get  my  glove  up  in 
front  of  my  face  when  bam !  the  ball  hit  right 
in  the  middle  of  it  and  stuck  there.  I  chucked 

[92] 


CHIVAUIY    IN    CAEBON    COUNTY 


it  over  to  Henry  Kamphefner  on  first,  and  wo 
doubled  Hazel  by  forty  feet,  but  somehow  I  felt 
kind  of  rotten  about  robbing  Pansy  of  that 
hit. 

"  'Take  the  horseshoes  out  of  your  pockets, 
Oswald!'  squalls  Hazel  when  she  finally  got  it 
through  her  head  that  we'd  stopped  'em  with  a 
double  play.  *  Pretty  lucky !  Pretty  lucky ! ' 

"I  ran  into  Pansy  again  as  we  changed  sides, 
and  this  time  she  grinned  when  she  saw  me 
coming. 

"  'Pretty  tough,  little  one,'  I  says.  'A  foot 
on  either  side,  and  that  ball  would  be  going 
yet.'  She  never  said  a  word;  just  trotted  out 
and  picked  up  her  glove. 

"Well,  that's  the  way  it  started.  Skipping 
the  details,  the  wryneck  pitched  swell,  elegant 
baseball,  and  when  he  got  in  a  hole,  he'd  switch 
and  roll  a  few  down  the  alley  with  his  left.  He 
had  us  all  swinging  like  a  farmyard  gate,  and 
when  you've  got  a  team  doing  that,  you've  got 
the  boys  guessing.  We  put  some  men  on  the 
bases  here  and  there,  but  we  didn't  seem  to  be 
able  to  hit  'em  around,  and  there  wasn't  much 
nourishment  in  trying  to  steal — not  with  Pansy 
covering  the  bag  and  handling  the  throw.  The 
wryneck  hit  me  an  awful  soak  in  the  ribs  in  the 
third  inning,  and  I  did  my  level  darndest  to 
steal  second,  because  I  wanted  to  be  where  I 
could  talk  to  Pansy.  I'm  supposed  to  be  a 
pretty  fast  little  fellow  on  my  feet,  and  I  was 
up  and  gone  with  the  wryneck's  wing,  but  that 
fat  catcher  slammed  the  ball  down  like  a  white 

[93] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


streak,  and  when  I  arrived,  feet  first,  Pansy  had 
the  ball  waiting  for  me. 

"Along  about  the  sixth  we  slipped  a  run 
across.  Pete  Townes  drew  a  base  on  balls, 
Charlie  Kennedy  pushed  him  along  with  a  sac 
rifice  bunt,  and  Billy  French  brought  him  home 
with  a  single  to  centre.  You  bet  that  one  run 
looked  mighty  good  to  us.  We'd  forgotten  all 
about  beating  those  bloomer  ladies  forty  to 
nothing,  and,  considering  the  way  the  wryneck 
was  going,  we  were  thankful  for  that  ace.  It 
looked  big  enough  to  win  with,  but  in  the  eighth 
we  had  another  guess.  Old  double-barrel  tied 
the  score  on  us. 

"I  hadn't  been  worrying  so  much  about  the 
wryneck  being  a  hitter,  because  he'd  been 
swinging  at  anything,  but  he  came  up  first  in 
the  eighth  and  tied  into  one  good  and  plenty. 
It  would  have  been  a  home  run  if  he  hadn't  been 
so  fat.  Of  course,  he  blamed  it  on  the  altitude. 
He  got  as  far  as  third  base,  and  then  he  sat 
down  on  the  bag  with  his  tongue  hanging  out  a 
foot.  His  bloomer  friends  certainly  knew  the 
fine  points  of  the  game.  Hazel  broke  a  shoe 
lace,  and  took  five  minutes  to  fix  it,  and  then 
Pansy  had  to  stop  to  do  up  her  hair,  and 
Maudie's  belt  got  twisted,  and  between  'em  all 
they  gave  the  old  rascal  a  fine  breathing  spell. 
At  that  I'd  have  left  him  marooned  on  third 
base  if  Fred  Gilroy  hadn't  played  ping-pong 
with  a  ball  that  Myrtle  hit  straight  at  him. 
Fred  made  a  high  peg  to  the  plate,  Jeff  had  to 
jump  for  it,  and  he  came  down  square  on  top 

[94] 


CHIVALRY    IN    CAEBON    COUNTY 


of  the  wryneck.  I've  never  seen  a  hippopota 
mus  slide  to  the  plate,  but  I  don't  need  to.  I 
saw  the  wryneck,  and  there  we  was  with  the 
score  tied  up  and  the  ninth  inning  coming. 

"By  this  time  we  was  pretty  much  worked 
up  about  them  two-to-one  bets,  and  the  bloomer 
ladies  were  chirping  like  a  lot  of  canaries. 
That  one  run  put  a  lot  of  life  into  'em. 

"We  didn't  do  any  good  in  our  half  of  the 
ninth,  and  then  here  was  Maudie  again,  leading 
off  for  the  ladies.  Maudie  was  tolerable  soft 
for  me.  She  was  afraid  of  a  fast  ball,  and  I 
didn't  give  her  anything  else.  Three  strikes 
for  Maudie.  The  bloomer  ladies  rooted  hard 
for  Hazel,  but  I  got  her  in  a  hole  and  made  her 
swing  at  a  curve,  and  she  went  back. 

"Pansy  waltzed  up  to  the  plate.  She  had  a 
bigger  bat  this  time.  Pansy  hadn't  hit  a  ball 
out  of  the  diamond  all  the  afternoon,  and  Henry 
Kamphefner,  who'd  been  reading  the  maga 
zines,  and  thought  he  knew  all  about  inside 
baseball,  wigwagged  to  the  outfielders  to  get  in 
close. 

"When  I  saw  that  big  bat  I  had  to  laugh.  It 
was  'most  as  big  as  Pansy  was. 

"  'Hey,  little  one,'  I  sings  out,  'what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  that  telegraph  pole?' 

"Pansy  laughed  back  at  me,  waved  her  hand, 
and  then  I  hope  I  may  choke  if  she  didn't  throw 
me  a  kiss!  Honest  Injun,  that's  just  what  she 
did!  You  could  have  knocked  me  down  with 
a  lead  pencil. 

"Next  thing  I  knew  there  was  a  terrible  racket 
[95] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


over  back  of  first  base.  Hazel  and  Maudie 
and  Mrytle  and  Jennie  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  bloomer  ladies  were  yelling  at  Martin 
Carey: 

"  'Mister  Umpire!     Oh,  Mister  Umpire!' 

"  'Well,  what's  wrong  now?'  says  Martin. 
The  crowd  hushed  up  to  listen  to  their  kick. 
Hazel  cut  loose  with  a  howl  that  you  could  have 
heard  half  a  mile  away. 

11  'You  make  that  pitcher  stop  flirting  with 
Pansy!'  she  bawls.  'He's  been  making  goo-goo 
eyes  at  her  all  through  the  game!  You  make 
him  quit  it ! ' 

"Well,  she  got  the  crowd  a-going,  and  I  sup 
pose  that's  what  she  wanted.  Laugh?  They 
laughed  their  heads  off.  First  thing  I  knew  my 
ears  were  burning  up,  and  I  didn't  hardly  know 
what  end  I  was  on.  I'll  bet  if  I'd  took  off  my 
shoes  and  dropped  my  glove  I'd  have  gone 
straight  up  in  the  air  like  a  balloon. 

"  'Come  on  there!'  yells  Hazel.  'Quit  stall 
ing  and  pitch!  Call  time  on  him,  Mister  Um 
pire!' 

"I  must  have  been  pretty  badly  rattled. 
Wasn't  that  bawl-out  enough  to  rattle  any 
body?  I  set  myself  to  pitch,  but  I  was  so  plum' 
full  of  other  ideas  and  things  that  I  mislaid 
the  plate  entirely,  and  before  I  knew  it  there 
was  Hazel  and  Maudie  and  the  rest  of  those 
squaws  doing  a  ghost  dance  along  the  side  lines, 
and  the  crowd  roaring  like  a  menagerie  at  din 
ner  time. 

"What's  the  count,  Martin?'  I  says.  You 
[96] 


CHIVALKY    IN    CAEBON    COUNTY 


can  tell  how  upset  I  must  have  been  to  ask  a 
question  like  that. 

"  'Three  balls  and  no  strikes,'  says  Martin. 
"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  Bud,  take  a  brace! 
Don't  let  those  old  battle-axes  scare  you. 
Steady  down  and  get  'em  over!' 

"Well,  I  knew  I  had  to  do  it.  I  aimed  the 
next  one  straight  down  the  groove,  and  there 
wasn't  a  thing  on  that  ball  but  the  cover — not 
a  thing.  With  three  and  nothing,  I  figured  that 
Pansy  would  wait  me  out  for  a  base  on  balls, 
and  I  heaved  that  one  up  there  as  straight  as 
I  knew  how,  looking  to  cut  the  plate  where  it 
was  biggest. 

"Pansy  saw  that  it  was  a  groover,  and  back 
went  that  big  bat,  and  then  bing!  she  landed 
on  it  as  hard  as  she  could  swing!  I  got  one 
flash  at  the  ball  as  it  went  out  over  my  head. 
It  was  another  one  of  those  low  line  drives.  I 
whirled  around,  and  there  was  Charlie  Kennedy 
and  Billy  French  and  George  Perkins,  all  hit 
ting  the  high  spots  in  the  direction  of  the  river. 
Kamphefner  had  pulled  'em  in  close,  and 
Pansy  had  crossed  us  by  lamming  it  out  over 
their  heads. 

"The  next  thing  I  noticed  was  Pansy  round 
ing  second  base,  and  run?  She  could  have  given 
a  coyote  a  head  start  and  run  him  breathless 
around  them  bags!  She  was  straightened  out 
for  third  before  Charlie  caught  up  with  the  ball 
at  all.  Dan  McLaurin  had  the  best  wing  in  the 
infield,  and  he  ran  back  to  handle  the  relay. 
Charlie  let  fly  just  as  Pansy  rounded  third  base, 

[97] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


and  Dan  made  a  chain-lightning  peg  to  the 
plate,  but  little  Pansy  hit  the  dirt  like  an 
avalanche,  and  Jeff  never  did  find  her  in  the 
dust  she  kicked  up. 

"  '  Safe!'  yells  Martin  Carey,  and  there 
went  our  old  ball  game,  two  to  one,  And  licked 
by  the  bloomer  ladies !  Jeff  Bloodgood  heaved 
the  ball  away,  he  was  so  mad.  I  don't  blame 
him." 

Bud  paused  and  rolled  another  cigarette, 
whistling  between  his  teeth  as  he  did  so.  I 
offered  some  consolatory  remarks,  but  Bud 
held  up  a  restraining  hand. 

' '  Wait ! "  he  said.  ' '  The  worst  is  yet  to  come. 
I  wouldn't  have  left  home  for  a  little  thing 
like  that." 

He  lighted  his  cigarette,  blew  a  few  clouds 
from  deep  down  in  his  lungs,  and  resumed  his 
narrative : 

"After  the  game  the  wryneck  took  off  his 
wig,  and  so  did  the  catcher,  and  they  went  up 
to  the  hotel  with  our  bunch.  The  girls  beat  it 
back  to  the  private  car.  Dan  got  the  money 
out  of  the  safe,  and  turned  it  over  to  the  wry 
neck.  I  got  to  say  for  him  that  he  acted  like 
a  true  sport,  and  did  the  right  thing  by  tho 
gang.  Then  Dan  said  we'd  all  have  one  on  the 
house  and  we  did;  and  then  some  more  of  the 
boys  had  a  stroke  of  enlargement  of  the  heart, 
and  then  the  wryneck  started  it  all  over  again. 
It  got  to  be  quite  a  party  after  a  while.  The 
wryneck,  he  said  we'd  given  him  the  toughest 

[98] 


CHIVALRY    IN    CARBON    COUNTY 


battle  of  the  season  so  far,  but  then  I  guess  he 
was  just  salving  us  a  little.  Goodness  knows 
he  could  afford  to. 

"Other  folks  dropped  in,  and  finally  there 
must  have  been  fifty  or  sixty  of  us.  Then  some 
one — no,  it  wasn't  me — suggested  that  it  would 
be  a  right  cute  little  idea  to  go  down  to  the 
depot  and  give  three  cheers  for  the  bloomer 
girls,  just  to  show  'em  that  we  were  true  sports, 
and  knew  how  to  lose  like  gentlemen.  Every 
body  thought  well  of  the  scheme,  and  then  Luke 
Fosdick  got  up  on  a  table,  and  said  if  we  were 
going  to  do  anything  of  that  sort  we  might  just 
as  well  do  it  right. 

«  'We'll  get  the  band  boys  together,  and  go 
down  there  and  give  'em  a  serenade!'  says 
Luke.  Luke  played  the  E-flat  cornet,  and 
thought  he  was  quite  a  bunch  on  that  solo  busi 
ness. 

"Well,  that  wasn't  any  trouble,  because  most 
of  the  band  boys  were  with  the  gang.  They 
rustled  out  their  instruments,  and  away  we 
went  across  the  bridge  and  over  toward  the 
depot,  the  band  taking  an  awful  fall  out  of  that 
'Hot  Time  in  the  Old  Town'  piece.  We  marched 
up  alongside  of  that  private  car,  and  opened 
the  celebration  with  three  cheers.  Then  the 
band  played  some  more — rotten,  it  was — and 
the  wryneck  went  into  the  car  and  brought  out 
some  of  the  bloomer  ladies  and  introduced  'em. 
They  didn't  look  any  better  to  me  in  their  regu 
lar  clothes. 

"I  rubbered  and  I  rubbered,  but  I  didn't  see 
[99] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


anything  of  Pansy,  so  after  a  while  I  edged 
over  to  Hazel,  who  had  borrowed  the  bass  drum, 
and  was  leading  the  band,  and  I  asked  her 
about  it. 

"  'Where's  the  little  shortstop?'  I  says. 
'Why  don't  you  trot  her  out?  This  is  her 
party,  and  she  oughtn't  to  run  out  on  it  this 
way.' 

"Hazel  threw  back  her  head,  and  began  to 
laugh,  and  she  laughed  so  long  and  so  loud  that 
all  the  gang  gathered  around  to  find  out  what 
was  so  funny. 

"  'Oh,  Joe!'  says  Hazel  to  the  wryneck. 
'Pansy  has  another  mash!  Oswald  says  he'd 
like  to  meet  her.' 

"Of  course,  the  boys  had  the  laugh  on  me, 
but  shucks !  they  was  just  as  anxious  as  I  was 
to  see  her.  They  began  to  yell : 

"  'Pansy!  Oh,  Pansy!  WTe  want  Pansy!' 
and  things  like  that. 

"  'All  right,  boys,'  says  the  wryneck.  'I'll 
go  in  and  coax  her  to  come  out.  Pansy  ain't 
very  strong  for  the  rough  stuff,  but  I  guess  I 
can  persuade  her.'  And  he  climbed  into  the 
car. 

"He  was  gone  quite  some  time.  We  bunched 
up  around  the  car  steps  and  waited,  and  while 
we  were  waiting  we  made  it  up  among  ourselves 
to  give  her  three  regular  ring-tail  peelers  and 
a  tiger  the  minute  she  poked  her  nose  outdoors. 

"Finally  the  door  opened,  and  there  was  the 
wryneck. 

"  'Gentlemen,'  says  he,  'the  young  lady  was 
[100] 


CHIVALRY    IN    CARBON    COUNTY 


dressing,  or  she  wouldn't  have  kept  you  wait 
ing.  Allow  me  to  present  to  you  Miss  Pansy 
DeMarr,  the  greatest  lady  shortstop  in  the 
world ! ' 

"He  made  a  flourish  with  his  arm  like  a  ring 
master  in  a  circus,  and  there  was  Pansy,  stand 
ing  in  the  vestibule  and  looking  down  at  us. 
She  had  on  what  looked  like  a  long  robe  of  some 
sort,  all  embroidery  and  lace,  and  she  smiled 
when  we  gave  her  a  real  Wyoming  send-off  with 
a  tiger  that  started  the  dogs  to  barking  for 
miles  and  miles. 

"  'Speech!  Speech!'  yells  Charlie  Patter 
son,  and  we  all  took  it  up  like  a  lot  of  parrots. 

"Pansy  looked  over  at  the  wryneck  and  he 
nodded  at  her.  She  put  one  hand  up  to  her 
hair,  and  the  other  one  went  to  her  throat.  I 
could  see  that  she  was  fumbling  with  the  catch 
to  that  robe,  and  just  as  I  was  beginning  to 
wonder  what  was  coming  off  next  two  things 
came  off  at  once — Pansy's  head  of  hair  and  her 
dressing  gown !  She  kicked  the  robe  backward, 
and  hopped  down  on  the  car  steps — as  pretty 
looking  a  boy  as  ever  you  saw  in  your  life! 

"Maybe  you've  heard  the  sound  that  goes 
through  a  crowd  at  a  prize  fight,  when  one  lad 
slips  over  a  fluke  knockout,  and  takes  every 
body  by  surprise,  including  himself?  A  sort 
of  a  cross  between  a  grunt  and  a  sigh.  I'll  bet 
there  wasn't  enough  wind  left  in  the  whole  lot 
of  us  to  fetch  out  one  decent,  healthy  cuss  word ! 
Flabbergasted?  That  ain't  no  name  for  it. 
And  before  we  could  get  breath  enough  to  say 

[101] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


anything,  Pansy  made  the  speech  we'd  been 
asking  for — made  it  in  the  kind  of  a  voice  that 
goes  with  pants. 

"  '"Where's  that  rube  pitcher?'  says  he.  'I 
want  to  give  him  a  kiss!' 

There  was  a  long  silence,  while  Bud  traced 
patterns  in  the  gravel  with  his  boot  heels. 

"At  that,"  he  remarked  defiantly,  "I  wasn't 
fooled  any  worse 'n  the  rest  of  'em.  That  kid 
could  have  fooled  anybody.  Why,  he  used  to 
be  on  the  stage.  One  of  those  female  imper 
sonators.  But  you  know  how  it  is  in  a  small 
town.  Once  they  get  anything  on  you,  they 
never  let  go.  They  just  keep  riding  you  and 
riding  you,  and  I  got  sick  of  it.  Baldy  Sisson 
had  everybody  in  Carbon  County  calling  me 
'Pansy.'  I  couldn't  stand  that,  so  I  ducked,  but 
if  you've  got  a  heart  at  all  you  won't  tip  it  off 
to  Baldy  what  I'm  doing  now." 

Bud  rose,  stretched  himself,  and  looked  at  his 
dollar  watch. 

"I  feel  quite  some  better!"  he  said.  "Come 
on,  let's  go  down  to  that  fish  place,  and  see 
those  Wyoming  trout.  Somebody  must  have 
fooled  them,  too,  or  they  wouldn't  be  here!" 


[102] 


"fT^HEEE  ain't  no  use  beating  around  the 
bush,"  said  Manager  Burgess  to 
pitcher  Wicks,  otherwise  "Wicksey" 
or  "the  Squirrel."  Having  thus 
pointed  out  the  futility  in  skirting  the  edges 
of  an  unpleasant  subject,  the  speaker  pro 
ceeded  to  do  the  very  thing  which  he  had  con 
demned  as  useless.  It  was  in  the  manager's 
mind  and  heavy  upon  his  conscience  to  tell  the 
Squirrel  that  after  nine  years '  faithful  and  con 
tinuous  service  he  was  out  of  a  job,  but  as 
Burgess  looked  upon  the  appealing  countenance 
of  his  veteran  pitcher,  he  found  it  hard  to  put 
his  message  into  words.  It  is  just  as  difficult 
for  a  bush-league  baseball  manager  to  tell  an 
unpleasant  truth  as  it  is  for  any  one  else. 

"You  know  the  fix  I'm  in,"  temporised 
Burgess.  "They  look  to  me  to  get  two  hun 
dred  cents  out  of  every  dollar  I  spend,  and  I 
can't  carry  any  dead  wood  on  the  pay  roll. 
Every  man  that  draws  salary  has  got  to  be  able 
to  work.  Particularly  the  pitchers.  Now  this 
new  kid,  McSherry,  looks  middling  good.  He 's 
got  as  much  smoke  as  a  steamboat,  and  if  I 

[103] 


SCOEE   BY   INNINGS 


can  ever  learn  him  to  think,  he'll  be  quite  a 
heaver  some  day.  You  see,  Wicksey,  Mc- 
Sherry's  coming  and  you're  going.  There's 
a  whole  lot  of  people  in  this  town  that  think 
you're  already  gone." 

"Aw,  say,"  said  Squirrel  Wicks,  and  there 
he  stopped.  Words  always  troubled  Wicks. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  them,  so  for 
the  most  part  he  remained  silent.  Vaguely  he 
realised  that  he  had  arrived  at  a  serious  crisis 
in  his  affairs,  and  he  knew  from  the  manager's 
manner  that  something  unpleasant  was  in  store. 
He  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  dirty,  unswept  dress 
ing-room  underneath  the  grand  stand  with  its 
litter  of  cast-off  garments,  cigar  butts,  and 
playing  cards,  and  for  lack  of  something  better 
to  do,  he  scraped  at  a  knot  hole  in  the  floor  with 
the  toe  of  his  spiked  shoe.  That  knot  hole  was 
an  old  friend;  it  had  been  there  during  the 
entire  period  of  the  Squirrel's  service. 

"Aw,  say !"  he  repeated  helplessly. 

"Well,  I'm  saying  it,"  continued  Burgess. 
"You  know  yourself  that  you  haven't  been 
much  use  to  the  team  so  far  this  season.  Last 
year  you  got  away  with  it  on  your  control,  but 
since  you've  lost  that,  it's  first-degree  murder 
to  ask  you  to  work.  I  slipped  you  in  there 
this  afternoon  just  to  see  if  you  couldn't  find 
the  plate  once  in  a  while,  and  what  did  you  do  ? 
Walked  three  men,  hit  two,  and  laid  one  right  in 
the  groove  for  Feeney !  What  kind  of  pitching 
is  that?" 

"Aw,   say!"     This   was   still   all   that   the 
[104] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


Squirrel  could  manage  under  the  circum 
stances,  which  were  beginning  to  be  acutely 
painful. 

"And,  of  course,"  said  Burgess,  "you  can't 
expect  to  go  on  pitching  forever.  Even  old  Cy 
Young  had  to  go  back  to  the  farm,  you  know. 
That  bird  had  the  greatest  soup  bone  ever  built 
onto  a  man,  but  he  kept  on  pitching,  and  by  and 
by  he  worked  it  out.  You  got  just  so  many 
games  up  your  sleeve,  Wicksey,  and  when 
you've  flung  'em  all — bang!" 

Wicks  did  not  look  up.  He  continued  to 
scrape  the  knot  hole  gently  with  his  left  toe. 
His  little  world  was  crashing  to  atoms  about 
his  ears,  but  he  could  not  find  words  in  which 
to  express  his  misery.  The  Maroons  were  not 
much  of  a  ball  club  by  any  standard  you  choose ; 
the  D.  L.  D.  League  was  not  much  of  a  league — 
"Darn  Little  Dough"  was  what  the  players 
called  it — and  Bowlegs  Burgess  was  not  much 
of  a  manager,  but  poor  as  they  were,  these 
things  were  the  best  that  Squirrel  Wicks  had 
ever  known,  and  the  news  that  he  was  to  be 
separated  from  them  after  so  many  years  came 
as  a  numbing  shock,  temporarily  paralysing  his 
limited  powers  of  reflection. 

"It's  tough,  I  know,"  said  Burgess,  with  the 
blundering  kindness  of  a  dentist  who  attempts 
to  soothe  the  jumping  nerve  with  conversation 
when  cocaine  is  needed.  "It's  tough,  but  it 
might  be  worse.  You  ain't  married,  and 
there's  only  yourself  to  look  out  for.  Just 
the  other  day  McCulley  was  saying  that  he 

[105] 


SCORE   BY    INNINGS 


wisht  he  could  get  a  steady  man  in  the  bowling 
alley  nights.  You  better  drop  in  and  see 
McCulley." 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  silence.  Wicks 
sat  motionless,  save  for  the  slight  scraping 
motion  of  his  left  foot,  now  purely  mechanical. 
He  had  ceased  to  study  the  knot  hole,  and  was 
staring  straight  in  front  of  him;  but  for  the 
expression  in  his  wavering  blue  eyes,  Burgess 
might  have  thought  that  Wicks  had  neither 
heard  nor  understood. 

"Well,  I  got  to  be  going!"  said  Burgess 
suddenly. 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  with  a  great  deal  of 
unnecessary  clatter,  and  moving  over  to  the 
broken,  fly-specked  mirror — sole  outward  evi 
dence  that  vanity  still  lived  among  the  Maroons 
— proceeded  to  knot  the  scarf  which  had  been 
hanging  about  his  neck.  This  task  completed 
to  his  satisfaction,  he  pierced  the  cheap,  knitted 
fabric  with  a  long,  brass  pin,  at  the  end  of 
which  was  an  imitation  pink  pearl  not  much 
larger  or  more  valuable  than  a  gumdrop.  Eeal 
pearls  of  any  size  or  colour  were  not  known  in 
the  D.  L.  D.  League. 

Burgess  consumed  a  great  deal  of  time  in 
the  operation,  for  he  hoped  that  the  Squirrel 
would  say  something,  and  give  a  hint  of  what 
was  passing  behind  those  troubled  eyes.  Thus 
the  conscientious  dentist  listens  for  the  patient 
to  groan  in  order  that  he  may  assure  his  victim 
that  the  pain  is  trifling  and  will  pass.  Kind 
ness  is  the  compelling  motive;  well  meant  but 

[106] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


useless.  Some  hurts  of  nerve  and  heart  lie 
deeper  than  words.  Burgess  made  a  last  at 
tempt  with  his  hand  on  the  doorknob. 

"There's  nothing  pers'nal  in  this,  Wicksey," 
said  he.  "If  you  was  able  to  take  your  turn 
in  the  box  and  win  a  game  once  in  a  while,  you 
could  stick  on  the  pay  roll  till  hell  freezes  over 
for  all  o'  me,  but  it  ain't  my  money.  It's  Joe 
Darnell's,  and  you  know  Joe;  'two  for  one 
always'  is  his  motto.  I  like  you  first  rate, 
Wicksey.  We  all  like  you  first  rate.  You're 
a  good  feller  and  all  that,  but  your  arm  is 
pitched  out — see?  Ausgespielt!  I'll  tell  Mc- 
Culley  that  you'll  be  around  to  see  him; 
shall  If" 

The  Squirrel  did  not  answer.  He  had  re 
turned  to  an  intimate  scrutiny  of  the  knot  hole. 
After  giving  him  a  liberal  interval  in  which  to 
respond,  Burgess  slammed  the  dressing-room 
door,  and  went  away,  his  rapid  steps  echoing 
hollowly  under  the  deserted  grand  stand. 

The  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  filtering  through 
the  cracks,  saw  Wicks  still  upon  the  bench  in 
front  of  his  locker,  a  slouching  figure  in  his 
dingy,  stained  uniform.  When  he  could  no 
longer  see  the  knot  hole,  he  scraped  it  with  his 
toe.  Not  all  the  tragedies  of  the  national  game 
are  played  out  before  an  audience. 

In  addition  to  owning  the  Maroon  franchise, 
n  doubtful  asset  at  best,  Joe  Darnell  owned  the 
Silver  Star  Saloon,  and  it  was  there  that  Bur 
gess  sought  his  superior.  Darnell  was  mopping 

[107] 


SCOKE    BY    INNINGS 


the  bar,  but  he  paused  long  enough  to  ask  a 
question. 

* '  Well !    Did  you  tell  him ! ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Burgess.  "I  told  him — and  I'd 
rather  have  been  licked." 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Darnell.  "What  did  he 
say?" 

*  *  That 's  the  worst  of  it, ' '  said  Burgess.  * '  He 
never  opened  his  mouth — just  sat  there  and 
looked  at  the  floor." 

"He  always  was  a  nut,  anyway,"  remarked 
Darnell.  "Most  left-handers  are  a  little 
touched  in  the  head.  So  long  as  he  could  pitch, 
I  stood  for  him,  but  now—  He  left  the  sen 

tence  unfinished,  and  continued  to  swab  the 
mahogany. 

"Poor  devil!"  said  Burgess.  "If  he'd  put 
up  any  sort  of  a  holler — asked  for  another 
chance — anything — it  wouldn't  have  been  so 
tough.  He  didn't  act  natural — like  a  man 
would  act  when  he  was  getting  a  can  tied  to 
him.  You  know,  Joe,  it  wouldn't  surprise  me 
at  all  if  he  went  clean  off  his  nut  any  time. 
He's  the  kind  that'll  sit  around  and  sit  around 
and  chew  on  his  trouble  till  some  day — bang! 
and  down  comes  the  whole  upper  story.  Yes, 
sir,  that's  just  about  what '11  happen  to 
him." 

"Well,"  said  Darnell,  "there's  one  good 
thing;  he  won't  ever  be  violent.  He  ain't  the 
violent  kind." 

"You  can't  never  tell  what  a  left-hander  will 
do,"  said  Burgess  sagely.  "Anyway,  I'm 

[108] 


THE    SQUIRKEL 


sorry  for  Wicksey.  I'm  going  over  and  ask 
McCulley  to  give  him  a  job." 

"What  doing?"  asked  Darnell,  with  slight 
interest. 

* '  You  think  any  feller  that 's  played  baseball 
for  you  nine  years — for  the  dough  you  pay — is 
going  to  be  particular?"  sneered  Burgess. 
"Any  old  job  would  be  a  boost — after  that." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  said  the  owner  of  the 
Maroons.  "Them  that  ain't  satisfied  can  quit. 
There 's  no  strings  on  'em,  my  son. ' ' 

n 

The  Squirrel's  public  record  was  an  open 
book;  his  private  record  was  blank.  He  drifted 
into  Booneville  from  nowhere,  found  the 
Maroons  at  practise,  and,  climbing  over  the 
bleacher  fence,  asked  for  a  job,  in  the  manner 
of  a  harvest  hand  accosting  a  farmer. 

"What  are  you?"  asked  Burgess.  "An  out 
fielder?" 

"I've  pitched — some,"  said  the  stranger. 

"Where  at?"  demanded  Burgess. 

The  abruptness  of  the  question  seemed  to 
startle  Wicks. 

"All  around  the  bushes,"  said  he  at  length. 
"I'm  pretty  good." 

"Oh,  you  are,  are  you?"  said  Burgess. 
' '  Show  me  something. ' ' 

Wicks  was  allowed  to  practise  with  the 
Maroons,  and  it  did  not  take  him  long  to  dem 
onstrate  that  it  was  as  he  had  stated.  He  was 

[109] 


SCOEE   BY    INNINGS 


pretty  good;  very  good,  in  fact,  for  the  D.  L. 
D.  League. 

"He's  a  nut  of  some  kind,"  Burgess  reported 
to  Darnell,  "but  there's  nothing  the  matter 
with  his  left  wing.  Got  speed,  control,  nice 
curves,  and  he  fields  pretty  well  for  such  a  big, 
gangling  feller.  Says  he's  never  been  in  a  real 
league  before." 

"Ask  him  how  much  he  wants  if  he  makes 
good, ' '  said  the  thrifty  Darnell.  "  If  he 's  a  nut 
we  ought  to  get  him  cheap. ' ' 

"I  asked  him  already,"  said  Burgess.  "He 
says  he  don't  care." 

"He's  a  nut  all  right,"  said  Darnell.  "Tell 
him  we'll  give  him  twelve  a  week  to  start 
with." 

Darnell  was  prepared  to  offer  as  much  as 
fifteen  in  case  the  stranger  protested,  but  Wicks 
accepted  the  pitiful  stipend  without  comment. 
Thirty  dollars  a  week  was  the  top  figure  in  that 
league,  twenty  was  the  average,  for  the  D.  L. 
D.  was  the  very  bottom  of  the  baseball  ladder 
— fit  only  to  climb  out  of  or  fall  into. 

Wicks  made  good  and  forgot  to  ask  for  more 
money;  a  second  reason  for  questioning  his 
sanity.  The  players  found  him  a  silent,  colour 
less  individual,  who  kept  his  mouth  shut  at  all 
times,  and  attended  strictly  to  his  own  business, 
having  no  business  outside  the  pitcher's  box. 
Attempts  to  draw  confidences  from  him  were 
useless;  he  met  such  advances  with  a  nervous, 
deprecating  grin.  Past  experience  was  a  thing 
which  he  would  discuss  with  nobody,  and  grad- 

[110] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


ually  the  impression  grew  that  Wicks  had  some 
thing  to  hide. 

It  was  Bogart  Ledbetter,  the  town  humourist, 
who  fastened  the  name  of  Squirrel  upon  Wicks. 
Bogart,  who  owned  a  pool  parlour,  and  main 
tained  a  private  menagerie  for  the  edification 
of  his  customers,  discovered  Wicks  endeavour 
ing  to  establish  friendly  relations  with  a  caged 
squirrel. 

"Don't  get  your  fingers  too  close  to  that 
feller,"  said  Bogart. 

"Why?"  asked  Wicks.  "He's  tame,  ain't 
he?" 

"He's  tame  all  right,  but  he's  a  squirrel,  and 
squirrels  eat  nuts,"  said  the  local  funny  man. 

It  was  humour  of  too  subtle  a  brand  for 
Wicks,  and  thereafter  he  became  the  Squirrel. 
He  accepted  the  name  as  he  had  accepted  the 
twelve  dollars  a  week — without  question  or 
argument. 

"A  little  bit  touched  in  the  upper  story,  but 
harmless,"  was  the  popular  verdict.  "Base 
ball  sense  is  the  only  kind  of  sense  he 's  got,  and 
it's  all  he  needs.  Gee,  how  he  can  hop  that  pill 
over  the  plate ! ' ' 

Other  left-handers,  better  known  to  fame, 
might  have  been  described  in  the  same  terms. 

Time  passed  on,  and  Squirrel  Wicks  became 
one  of  the  veterans  of  the  Maroon  team. 
Almost  any  man  who  could  play  baseball  a 
little  and  would  play  it  for  a  little  money  had 
a  chance  to  become  a  veteran  in  the  D.  L.  D. 
League.  Youngsters  flashed  for  a  season,  and 

[111] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


then  went  higher  to  their  rewards,  for  they  did 
not  belong  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder,  but 
neither  ambition  nor  envy  touched  Squirrel 
Wicks.  He  had  found  the  spot  where  he  be 
longed,  and  seemed  satisfied  with  it.  Scouts, 
beating  the  bushes  in  search  of  promising  ma 
terial,  never  looked  twice  at  Wicks. 

"He's  good  enough  for  Booneville,"  said 
they,  which  meant  that  he  was  not  good  enough 
for  anywhere  else. 

Wicks  had  heard  of  cities  where  ball  players 
wore  real  diamonds,  and  earned  real  money, 
but  to  him  these  cities  were  nothing  but  names 
— New  York,  Chicago,  and  Pittsburgh.  He  had 
also  heard  of  the  organisation  known  as  the  big 
league,  but  the  words  possessed  no  especial  sig 
nificance  for  him. 

"How'd  you  like  to  go  up  there  some  day!" 
Tacks  Murphy  once  asked  Wicks  this  question. 
Minor  leaguers  usually  refer  to  the  big  league 
as  "up  there." 

"Wouldn't  like  it,"  said  Wicks,  who  was  in 
a  rarely  communicative  mood. 

"You  wouldn't!  Why,  say,  do  you  know 
what  some  of  them  fellers  get  for  playing  six 
months?" 

"Huh-uh!" 

"Ten  thousand  dollars!  And  they  live  on 
the  fat  of  the  land — they  don't  ride  in  no 
cabooses,  you  bet." 

"That's  too  much  money  just  for  playing 
ball, ' '  said  the  Squirrel  mildly. 

"It  wouldn't  be  too  much  for  me  if  I  could 
[112] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


get  it,"  said  Tacks  hungrily.  "And  think  of 
all  the  fun  a  feller  could  have  in  a  town  like 
Chicago  or  Saint  Looey." 

The  Squirrel  shook  his  head. 

1 ' 1  don 't  like  them  big  towns, ' '  said  he.  ' '  Too 
much  going  on." 

"I'll  bet  you  never  saw  a  big  town!"  scoffed 
Tacks. 

"I  have  so.     The  biggest  town  in  loway." 

Later,  having  had  time  to  think,  Wicks  added 
an  illuminating  sentence  or  two — the  key  to  his 
queer  character,  had  Tacks  but  known  it. 

1  'It  ain't  the  money  that  I  care  about,"  said 
he.  "Money  is  nothing,  but  I  certainly  do  love 
to  play  ball.  Seems  as  if  the  only  real  fun  I 
get  is  when  I'm  in  there  pitching.  I  like  to  see 
'em  swing  their  heads  off  at  the  third  one." 

Though  Wicks  had  never  explained  his  point 
of  view  to  the  manager,  Bowlegs  Burgess  fur 
nished  the  Squirrel  with  plenty  of  pleasure. 
Steady,  consistent  pitchers,  eager  to  work  in 
turn  and  out  of  turn,  are  as  rare  in  the  D.  L. 
D.  as  any  other  league,  and  Burgess  worked  the 
uncomplaining  Wicks  like  a  horse.  Under  the 
circumstances,  it  was  marvellous  that  his  arm 
lasted  as  long  as  it  did.  It  must  have  been  an 
unusual  arm  to  begin  with,  for  it  was  later 
ascertained  that  the  Squirrel  had  been  pitching 
here,  there,  and  everywhere  for  six  years,  when 
he  drifted  into  Booneville.  Six  and  nine  are 
fifteen,  and  fifteen  years  in  the  pitcher's  box 
will  send  most  of  the  iron  men  to  the  scrap 
heap. 

[113] 


SCOEE    BY    INNINGS 


The  breakdown  of  a  pitcher  is  seldom  a  sud 
den  affair;  the  wearing  out  of  one  is  a  gradual 
process  which  never  varies.  First  the  Squir 
rel's  speed  deserted  him,  and  he  was  no  longer 
able  to  hop  the  third  one  across  the  corner  of 
the  plate.  Dismayed  at  his  failing  power, 
Wicks  fell  back  upon  his  control,  of  which  he 
had  been  gifted  with  rather  more  than  a  left 
hander's  share.  Control  carried  him  through 
three  seasons,  but  when  the  curves  began  to 
go  wide,  and  the  ghost  of  the  ''fast  one"  re 
fused  to  break  at  all,  even  a  half-wit  like  Wicks 
knew  that  the  end  was  in  sight. 

rn 

On  the  night  of  his  dismissal,  Wicks  pre 
sented  himself  at  McCulley's  bowling  alley. 
Utter  dejection  struck  at  every  line  of  his  tall, 
awkward  figure.  His  shoulders  sagged  hope 
lessly,  and  he  shuffled  his  feet  in  an  apologetic 
manner  as  he  stood  in  front  of  the  cigar  coun 
ter.  Twice  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but 
no  words  would  come. 

"Hello,  Squirrel!"  said  McCulley  cheerfully. 
"Do  you  want  that  job?" 

Wicks  gulped,  and  nodded  his  head. 

"All  right.  Take  off  your  coat,  and  hop  to 
it.  Put  up  the  ducks  on  number  three." 

So  the  Squirrel  became  a  pin  sticker  at  a 
dollar  and  a  quarter  a  night — a  mighty  fall 
for  one  who  had  been  a  baseball  pitcher,  but 
even  a  squirrel  must  eat.  Tony,  the  nimble 

[114] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


little  Italian  pin  sticker,  was  paid  a  dollar  and 
a  half  a  night,  and  the  three  negroes  received 
a  dollar  apiece.  The  extra  twenty-five  cents 
paid  to  Wicks  may  be  credited  to  a  trace  of  pity 
in  the  McCulley  make-up.  As  a  pin  sticker, 
the  Squirrel  was  not  worth  a  bonus. 

"I  could  have  got  a  kid  for  a  dollar  a  night 
that  \vould  stick  pins  all  around  him,"  ex 
plained  McCulley  to  his  customers,  "but  it 
seemed  to  me  it  was  kind  of  tough  to  can  him 
off  the  team  after  all  the  years  he's  been  here. 
He's  a  nut,  I  know,  but  he's  quiet,  and  he 
'tends  to  business.  Don't  bawl  him  out  so 
much  for  being  slow,  boys.  He's  doing  the 
best  he  can,  and  when  he  hoists  those  long  legs 
of  his  out  of  the  pit,  you  can  bet  that  every 
pin  is  on  the  spot.  How  does  he  like  his  new 
job?  The  Lord  knows.  He  hasn't  opened  his 
mouth  to  me." 

Wicks  opened  his  mouth  to  no  one.  Night 
after  night  he  sweated  in  the  padded  pits,  bend 
ing  his  back  over  the  splintery  tenpins  and 
dodging  the  flying  "ducks"  when  small-ball 
games  were  in  order.  It  was  not  a  merry  life, 
but  between  the  hours  of  six  and  twelve  it  was 
a  busy  one,  which  is  the  next  best  thing. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  week,  Wicks  moved 
his  few  possessions  from  the  boarding  house 
to  the  bowling  alley,  and  thereafter  he  slept  in 
the  storeroom  with  Tony,  the  three  negroes,  the 
worn-out  pins,  and  the  superannuated  pool 
tables.  McCulley  had  provided  half  a  dozen 
cots  for  his  hired  men,  which  enabled  him  to 

[115] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


pay  them  a  lower  wage  by  saving  them  the  item 
of  room  rent.  When  one  earns  a  dollar  and  a 
quarter  a  night,  room  rent  becomes  an  item 
worthy  of  serious  consideration. 

Under  Wicks'  cot,  and  guarded  carefully, 
was  a  battered  old  pasteboard  suitcase,  which, 
when  new,  had  almost  resembled  alligator  skin. 
The  three  negroes,  noting  the  Squirrel's  furtive 
manner,  made  up  their  minds  that  the  suitcase 
contained  something  of  value.  They  discussed 
the  matter  among  themselves. 

"Whut  you  reckon  the  ol'  Squi'l  got  in  that 
box?"  asked  Ephraim  Ballou.  "Las'  night  I 
wakes  up,  an'  there  he  sets  on  the  aidge  of  his 
bed.  Kind  of  scairt  me  at  first  because  I 
couldn't  make  out  whut  he's  up  to,  but  bimeby 
the  light  gets  better,  an'  I  sees  that  he's  got 
that  box  open  in  his  lap,  an'  is  kind  of  feelih' 
round  inside  it  with  his  hands.  He  set  there 
the  longes'  while,  never  makin'  a  sound.  Look 
to  me  like  he  was  kind  of  pettin'  something. 
Whut  you  reckon  he  got  in  there?" 

"  'Tain't  no  dough,  else  he  wouldn't  be 
yere,"  said  Zeke  Johnson.  "And  you-all  hears 
me  say  it,  I  ain'  gwine  messin'  round  with  no 
junk  whut  belong  to  a  lunatic.  No  indeedy! 
S'posin'  he'd  ketch  you  monkeyin'  with  that 
box?  They  ain'  no  telling  whut  he'd  do." 

"If  he  ketches  me,"  said  Ephraim,  "but  I 
don't  'low  to  let  him  do  that." 

"You  look  out,  Eph,"  said  the  third  negro. 
"Them  half -wise,  half- nutty  people  is  terrible 
foxy!" 

[116] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


The  time  came  when  Ephraim  got  a  chance 
to  satisfy  his  curiosity,  and  the  result  was  a 
complete  surprise.  He  relates  his  experience 
as  follows: 

' 'The  Squi'l  he  goes  out  to  git  a  bite  to  eat, 
an'  I  bulges  in  an'  drags  out  that  suitcase.  He 
ain't  even  got  it  locked,  maybe,  because  the 
lock's  busted.  I  opens  her  up,  and  whut  you 
think  I  found?  Nothin'  but  that  ratty  oP 
Maroon  uniform  of  his,  some  baseball  shoes, 
an'  a  glove  full  o'  holes.  Thass  every  single 
thing  they  was.  You  don't  reckon  he  thinks 
he's  gwine  to  pitch  some  mo'!" 

"Pore  ol'  devil!"  said  Zeke  Johnson. 
"  'Pears  like  he  jus'  nachelly  hates  to  let  go. 
Fightehs  is  jus'  the  same  way.  They  alwuz 
thinks  they's  one  mo'  battle  in  'em.  Look  at 
Gawge  Dixon  an'  the  Old  Marster !  Could  any 
body  tell  them  they  was  through?  Even  afteh 
they  was  licked,  they  didn't  believe  it.  The 
Squi'l's  the  same  way,  an'  bein'  sort  o'  loony 
makes  it  worse." 

Wicks  did  not  relinquish  his  interest  in  base 
ball.  When  the  Maroons  were  playing  at  home, 
they  were  always  sure  of  one  deeply  interested 
spectator  who  came  in  through  the  deadhead 
gate  and  took  up  a  lonely  position  at  the  far 
end  of  the  right-field  bleachers.  Elbows  on  his 
knees,  and  chin  in  his  hands,  he  followed  every 
move  of  the  game  from  beginning  to  end,  a 
silent,  impassive  figure  in  whom  was  neither 
praise  nor  blame.  His  old  teammates  often 
waved  their  hands  at  him,  or  shouted  rough 

[117] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


greetings ;  he  responded  with  the  slightest  nod. 
He  had  never  been  in  the  clubhouse  since  the 
night  he  packed  his  suitcase. 

The  motionless  figure  on  the  bleachers  often 
betrayed  Burgess  into  prophecy. 

"You  mark  my  words,"  the  manager  would 
say,  "  Wicks  is  going  violently  bug  one  of  these 
days.  Take  a  born  nut  like  he  is,  and  give  him 
a  grievance  to  brood  over,  and  if  he  stays  with 
it  long  enough,  look  out  for  him.  I  hope  the 
old  boy  ain't  got  anything  against  me." 

If  the  Squirrel  had  nothing  against  Burgess 
he  was  hopelessly  in  the  minority  in  Booneville, 
for  the  Maroons  were  having  a  bad  season,  and, 
as  is  always  the  case,  the  manager  came  in  for 
the  lion's  share  of  the  blame.  Poor  Bowlegs 
was  doing  the  best  he  could  with  the  material 
provided,  for  Joe  Darnell  absolutely  refused  to 
throw  good  money  after  bad,  as  he  expressed  it. 

"The  club  is  all  right,"  insisted  the  owner 
stubbornly,  "the  trouble  is  in  the  handling." 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  or  anybody  else  handle 
that  bunch  of  sand  letters ! ' '  responded  Burgess 
with  bitterness.  "Connie  Mack  himself  can't 
take  swill  and  make  champagne.  If  you  'd  only 
loosen  up  and  let  me  spend  a  little  money  I 
could  stiffen  up  that  infield,  get  a  hitting  out 
field,  and  a  real  pitcher  or  two.  Then  we  could 
make  some  sort  of  a  race  out  of  it.  I  know 
where  I  can  get  a  whale  of  a  pitcher,  and  all 
he  wants  is  twenty-five  a  week  and  his 
board." 

"Yes,"  said  Darnell,  "and  I  could  get  Ty 
[118] 


THE   SQUIKREL 


Cobb  and  Walter  Johnson  if  there  wasn't  any 
thing  to  it  but  spending  money.  You  must 
think  I'm  in  this  business  for  my  health!" 

"It's  about  all  you'll  get  out  of  it  unless  you 
come  through,"  said  the  harassed  manager. 
"The  crowds  are  getting  smaller  and  smaller, 
we  don 't  draw  flies  on  the  road,  we  '11  be  in  last 
place  in  another  week,  and  that's  where  we'll 
finish.  The  only  way  to  make  money  out  of 
baseball  is  to  put  money  into  it,  and  you  won't 
let  go  of  a  cent ! ' ' 

'  *  You  bet  I  won 't ! "  said  Darnell.  '  *  And  I  'm 
going  to  throw  up  this  franchise  if  the  crowds 
don't  pick  up.  I've  got  a  family,  I  have,  and 
I  don't  propose  to  sink  a  lot  of  good  dough  in 
a  bum  ball  team." 

This  was  the  condition  of  affairs  when 
Martin  Bowling,  the  postmaster  of  Booneville, 
discovered  in  the  mail  a  letter  addressed  to 
Elmer  Wicks.  It  spent  a  week  in  the  W  box 
of  the  general  delivery  before  Dowling  had  an 
inspiration. 

"Mary,"  said  he  to  his  clerk,  "what's  Squir 
rel  Wicks '  first  name  ? ' ' 

"I  never  heard  him  called  anything  but 
Squirrel,"  said  Mary. 

"Well,  I  wish  you'd  ring  up  McCulley  at 
the  bowling  alley,  and  ask  him  if  the  Squirrel's 
first  name  is  Elmer.  If  it  is,  there's  a  letter 
here  for  him." 

1 '  Humph ! ' '  sniffed  Mary.  ' '  Who  'd  write  to 
that  simpleton!" 

But  she  telephoned,  and  half  an  hour  later1 
[119] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


the  Squirrel,  shabby,  unshaven,  and  apologetic, 
appeared  at  the  general-delivery  window. 

'  *  Wicks,  ma  'am, ' '  said  he,  blushing.  * '  Elmer 
Wicks." 

"And  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  said  Mary, 
later,  "if  it  was  the  only  letter  he  ever  got  in 
his  life.  Addressed  with  a  typewriter,  it  was, 
and  from  Waterloo,  Iowa.  There  wasn't  any 
name  on  the  come-back;  only  a  post-office  box. 
No,  it  wasn't  from  a  girl;  it  was  in  a  business 
envelope. ' ' 

The  next  morning  the  Squirrel's  cot  in  the 
storeroom  was  empty,  and  his  pasteboard  suit 
case  was  missing.  The  disappearance  of  a 
prominent  citizen  is  never  more  than  a  nine 
days'  wonder;  the  Squirrel  was  forgotten  in 
three. 

IV 

The  league  season  in  Booneville  limped  on  to 
a  disastrous  finish.  In  last  place  since  the  end 
of  July,  the  club  had  not  been  able  to  pay 
expenses,  and  Joe  Darnell,  loudly  proclaiming 
his  willingness  to  sell  the  franchise,  was  greeted 
with  ironical  mirth. 

"Sell  it!"  said  Bogart  Ledbetter.  "You'll 
have  to  pay  somebody  to  take  the  darned  thing 
off  your  hands!  You  don't  think  anybody  is 
going  to  be  fool  enough  to  buy  a  dead  horse, 
do  you?" 

"I'll  sell  it  or  throw  it  up,"  said  Darnell 
savagely.  "I'm  not  sucker  enough  to  hold  the 

[120] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


bag.  The  folks  in  this  town  make  me  sick! 
Here  I've  given  'em  league  baseball  all  these 
years,  and  the  first  time  the  team  has  a  streak 
of  bad  luck,  what  do  they  do?  Quit  me  cold. 
A  fine  lot  of  sports,  they  are!  But  they  won't 
hook  me,  Bogey.  I'll  get  rid  of  this  old  fran 
chise  some  way ! ' ' 

1 '  Put  it  in  a  basket  with  a  bottle  of  milk,  and 
leave  it  on  somebody's  doorstep  overnight," 
suggested  Ledbetter.  "That's  the  way  they  do 
with  foundlings.  If  you  quit,  Joe,  what's  go 
ing  to  become  of  Burgess,  and  all  the  boys  on 
the  club?  They're  such  rotten  ball  players  that 
they  can't  get  a  job  anywhere  else.  This  is 
the  worst  team  in  the  worst  league  in  the  whole 
world.  Where  do  they  go  from  here?" 

"Let  'em  go  to  work!"  snapped  Darnell. 
"It'll  do  'em  good!" 

"Fine!"  said  Ledbetter.  "As  ball  players, 
they're  a  swell  lot  of  farm  hands.  Your 
pitchers  ought  to  be  pitching  hay,  and  they 
would  be,  but  they  haven't  got  control  enough 
to  heave  alfalfa  through  a  barn  door.  Your 
infielders  would  make  good  short-order  cooks, 
the  way  they  scramble  the  eggs,  and  spill  the 
beans.  As  for  Burgess,  he  ought  to  make  a 
fair  mule  driver,  the  experience  he 's  had.  Yes, 
let  'em  go  back  to  work,  by  all  means." 

"They  won't  work  me!"  said  Darnell. 

The  Booneville  season  was  to  close  on  a  Sun 
day,  the  Maroons  playing  a  home  engagement 
with  the  Piketown  Reds.  It  was  a  six-club 
league,  and  the  Reds  were  safely  intrenched  in 

[121] 


SCORE   BY    INNINGS 


fifth  place.  The  outlook  was  a  dreary  one,  and 
the  final  harvest  of  quarters  and  halves  prom 
ised  to  be  small. 

On  Saturday  morning,  Bowlegs  Burgess  was 
on  his  way  to  the  Silver  Star  Saloon  for  a  last 
conference  with  Joe  Darnell.  The  manager  of 
the  Maroons  wore  his  hat  tilted  down  over  his 
eyes,  and  his  hands  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets, 
and,  as  he  walked,  he  muttered  under  his 
breath.  This  habit  is  common  with  managers 
of  tail-end  teams,  and  the  reason  is  not  hard 
to  find.  Human  misery  seeks  an  outlet  in 
words,  the  manager  has  much  to  explain,  and, 
as  nobody  will  listen  to  the  unfortunate  whose 
team  is  in  last  place,  he  talks  to  himself,  certain 
of  a  sympathetic  listener. 

1 1 It's  all  off,"  said  Burgess.  "If  I  didn't 
have  a  wife  and  two  kids,  it  wouldn't  be  so 
tough,  but— 

A  familiar  figure  approached,  coming  from 
the  direction  of  the  railroad  station.  Burgess 
spied  it,  and  a  startled  exclamation  burst  from 
him: 

"Wiclcseyl" 

It  was  indeed  the  Squirrel,  but  he  had  under 
gone  a  transformation.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
cheap  black  suit,  which  draped  his  angular  form 
in  straight,  ungraceful  lines.  He  wore  a  black 
satin  tie  of  the  sort  which  fastens  with  an 
elastic  band,  and  on  his  head  was  perched  a 
black  derby  hat  of  an  almost  forgotten  shape 
such  as  may  be  encountered  on  the  rural  free 
delivery  routes.  He  resembled  a  cross  between 

[122] 


THE    SQUIRKEL 


an  undertaker  and  a  scarecrow,  and,  as  he 
drew  near,  his  heavy,  black  shoes  squeaked 
dolorously. 

"Well,  you  old  rascal!"  said  Burgess. 
"Where  have  you  been  all  this  time?" 

"Up  in  loway,"  said  Wicks,  solemnly  shak 
ing  hands. 

"The  devil  you  have!"  said  Burgess. 
"Where  did  you  get  all  the  clothes?  You 
look  like  a  dude." 

"I — bought  'em,"  said  Wicks,  and,  taking 
out  a  large  handkerchief,  he  proceeded  to  mop 
his  face  with  great  vigour. 

"Must  have  a  job  somewhere?"  suggested 
Burgess. 

Wicks  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  said  he.     "I  ain't  been  working." 

"Come  back  to  stay  a  while?" 

"Dunno.    I  might." 

Extracting  information  from  the  Squirrel 
was  like  drawing  the  cork  from  a  bottle  with 
out  a  corkscrew.  The  men  stood  facing  each 
other  for  some  seconds,  and  then  Wicks  picked 
up  his  ancient  suitcase,  and  fell  into  step  beside 
Burgess. 

' '  I  wasn  't  going  no  place  in  particular, ' '  said 
he,  "so  I'll  walk  along  with  you.  How's 
things?" 

"Rotten!"  said  Burgess.  "I  guess  you've 
got  here  in  time  to  see  the  finish  of  a  league 
team  in  this  town." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  things  have  been  going  from  bad  to 
[123] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


worse  all  season,  and  now  Joe  wants  to  sell  out 
or  throw  up  the  franchise  and  quit.  I've  been 
trying  to  get  some  of  the  sports  to  chip  in  and 
buy  the  club  from  Darnell,  but  they  can't  see 
it."  Burgess  had  found  his  sympathetic  lis 
tener  at  last,  and  floodgates  were  opened. 
"You  know  me,  Wicksey.  I'm  no  John  Mc- 
Graw,  but  I  can  win  ball  games  if  I've  got  any 
thing  to  win  'em  with.  A  winning  ball  club 
in  this  town  would  be  a  good  investment,  but 
I  can't  get  anybody  to  touch  it  because  Joe  let 
the  team  go  all  to  seed — wouldn't  spend  a  nickel 
on  it.  I  told  him  how  it  would  be.  I  wanted 
to  go  out  and  grab  a  few  live  ones;  I  wanted 
to  pay  better  salaries,  and  get  the  money  back 
out  of  increased  attendance,  but  Joe  couldn't 
see  it  that  way.  He  was  all  for  picking  up  kids 
and  tramp  ball  players  that  he  could  get  for 
nothing.  I  tell  you,  Wicksey,  you  can't  draw 
money  less  you've  got  a  winning  club,  and  you 
can't  have  a  winning  club  without  players — 
good  players — and  they  won't  work  for  noth 
ing.  Joe  has  let  the  property  deteriorate,  and 
now  when  he  wants  to  sell,  they  all  give  him 
the  laugh.  I  don't  know  what  we're  going  to 
do.  Joe  hasn't  paid  us  for  the  last  three  weeks 
— he  says  he's  waiting  to  see  how  he  comes  out 
at  the  end  of  the  season.  That's  the  bunk. 
He's  going  to  try  to  beat  us  out  of  three  weeks' 
dough.  Joe  Darnell  has  had  this  club  for 
twelve  years,  and  the  first  season  he  loses 
money,  he  wants  to  throw  up  his  hands  and 
quit.  Lord !  I  wish  I  could  get  hold  of  a  man 

[124] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


with  some  sporting  blood  and  a  bank  roll!  If 
I  could  find  somebody  to  buy  that  ball  club,  and 
spend  a  little  money  strengthening  it,  I'd  build 
him  up  a  pennant  winner,  sure ! ' ' 

"I'll  buy  it,"  said  the  Squirrel. 

Burgess  halted  in  his  tracks. 

"Huh?     You'll  what?" 

"I'll  buy  the  ball  club,"  repeated  Wicks 
calmly. 

Burgess  stared  hard  into  the  Squirrel's 
placid  countenance,  in  which  was  no  sign  of 
emotion  of  any  sort;  he  strove  to  hold  the 
wavering  blue  eyes,  but  they  slipped  beyond 
him.  A  sudden  suspicion  flashed  into  the 
manager's  brain.  He  laid  his  hand  on  Wicks' 
arm  with  the  cautious  gesture  of  one  establish 
ing  relations  with  a  dangerous  horse,  and 
when  he  spoke  his  voice  was  soothing  in  the 
extreme. 

"Why — why,  of  course,  you'll  buy  the  ball 
club!"  said  he.  "Sure  you  will!  Ain't  it 
funny  I  never  thought  of  you  before!  You'd 
be  the  very  man.  Buy  the  whole  darn  league 
if  you  want  to ! " 

"I  could  do  that,  too,"  said  the  Squirrel, 
"but  it  would  be  syndicate  baseball.  I  think 
I'd  rather  own  just  one  club." 

"Of  course!  Of  course!"  said  Burgess 
hastily.  "You're  right  about  that,  Wicksey. 
And  when  you  get  ready  to  buy,  I'll  manage 
the  club  for  you." 

"I'd  rather  have  you  for  a  manager  than 
anybody  else,"  said  Wicks. 

[125] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


"Now  you're  shouting,  old  boy !  Yes,  indeed, 
and  I'd  manage  it  right  for  you!"  Burgess' 
eyes  were  darting  up  and  down  both  sides  of 
the  street,  as  if  seeking  for  something,  but  he 
continued  to  babble  reassuringly,  as  fast  as  his 
tongue  could  wag:  "We  always  got  along  first 
rate,  didn't  we,  Wicksey?  Always  the  best  of 
friends!  And  that  time  I  let  you  out — that 
was  all  Darnell's  fault.  I  wanted  to  keep  you. 
Sure  I  did.  Ask  anybody.  Don't  you  remem 
ber,  I  told  you  that,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
you  could  stay  till  hell  froze  over  if  you  never 
won  a  game  ?  Don 't  you  remember  that  ? ' ' 

"No,  I  don't  remember  that,"  said  Wicks. 

' '  Sure  you  do !  Sure  you  do ! "  Burgess 
was  still  clawing  at  the  Squirrel's  arm.  "Nine 
years  you  pitched  for  me,  and  we  never  had  a 
cross  word!  Gimme  another  pitcher  like  you, 
and  this  club  wouldn't  be  in  last  place  to-day! 
Not  on  your  life!  I've  always  said  that.  I 
told  Joe  Darnell  so.  'You  chump,'  I  says,  'you 
went  and  canned  the  only  pitcher  I  had.  You 
wouldn't  lemme  keep  Wicksey,  and  now  you'll 
see  where  we  finish.'  That's  what  I  told  him. 
You  can  ask  anybody  if  I  didn't." 

"I  can  pitch  yet,"  said  Wicks,  with  immense 
conviction. 

"I'll  bet  you  can!"  cried  Burgess,  slapping 
him  on  the  back.  "Remember  how  you  used 
to  shoot  that  third  strike  over?  None  of  'em 
could  touch  that  fast  ball,  could  they?  Yes, 
and  it  would  have  made  a  sucker  out  of  Ty 
Cobb,  or  the  German!" 

[126] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


Light  flickered  behind  the  wavering  blue 
eyes. 

"I  can  shoot  the  third  one  over  just  as  good 
as  I  ever  could,"  said  the  Squirrel.  "I  ain't 
had  any  real  fun  since  I  quit  pitching.  Seems 
like  I  never  did  have  any  real  fun  except  when 
I  was  in  there  working.  There's  a  lot  of  games 
left  in  me  yet. ' ' 

' '  You  're  good  for  ten  years  more, ' '  said  Bur 
gess  recklessly.  "And  you're  going  to  pitch 
again,  that's  what  you're  going  to  do!  Leave 
it  to  me,  and  I'll  fix  it  all  up.  You  can  pitch 
as  often  as  you  want  to." 

"When  I  buy  this  club,"  said  Wicks,  with 
terrible  distinctness,  "I'd  like  to  see  anybody 
stop  me  from  pitching.  Come  on;  let's  go  up 
to  Joe's  place,  and  buy  it  now." 

' '  Whatever  you  say, ' '  agreed  Burgess.  "  I  'm 
the  best  friend  you've  got.  You  know  that, 
don't  you,  Wickseyf " 

Burgess  left  the  Squirrel  standing  in  front 
of  the  bar  in  the  Silver  Star  Saloon,  and  hur 
ried  into  the  back  room,  where  he  found  Joe 
Darnell  moodily  contemplating  a  pile  of  unpaid 
bills. 

"Telephone  for  a  cop!"  whispered  Burgess. 
"Squirrel  Wicks  is  out  there,  plumb  crazy! 
Clean  off  his  nut!  I  told  you  it  would  come 
some  day!" 

"Wicks!"  ejaculated  Darnell.  "That  loon 
back  again?  Why,  he  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly!" 

"He's  raving,  I  tell  you!"  urged  Burgess. 
[127] 


SCOKE    BY    INNINGS 


"I've  had  a  terrible  time  stalling  him  along! 
Hurry  up !  Get  the  cop  ! " 

"Pshaw!  He  ain't  violent,  is  he?  What 
does  he  want?" 

"He  says  he  wants  to  buy  the  ball  club." 

"Good  night!"  gasped  Darnell,  reaching  for 
the  telephone.  "I'll  tell  the  chief  to  send  over 
a  man  on  the  run.  You  go  out  and  keep  him 
pacified — stall  with  him — agree  to  everything. 
I'll  be  there  in  a  minute  with  a  'sap'  in  my 
pocket.  We'll  string  him  along  until  the  bull 
comes.  Hello !  Hello !  Police  station,  quick ! ' ' 

A  moment  later  the  proprietor  of  the  Silver 
Star  Saloon  strolled  out  of  the  back  room,  eight 
inches  of  rubber  hose  stuffed  with  duckshot  in 
his  hip  pocket.  He  smiled  across  the  bar  at 
Wicks,  who  was  leaning  his  elbows  upon  the 
mahogany  in  a  well-remembered  pose. 

"Well,  Squirrel!"  said  Darnell  pleasantly, 
"it  looks  like  old  times  to  see  you  back. 
How've  you  been?  Have  a  drink?" 

"I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,"  said  Wicks, 
"and  I  don't  drink.  You  know  that." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause. 

"Burgess  tells  me,"  said  Darnell,  "that  you 
want  to  buy  the  ball  club." 

"I  was  thinking  of  it,"  said  Wicks. 

"I  don't  know  anybody  I'd  rather  sell  it  to 
than  you,"  said  Darnell,  winking  at  Burgess. 

"Yes,"  said  Wicks,  "lots  of  people  wouldn't 
want  to  buy  a  ball  club.  I  do. " 

"Sure  you  do!"  prompted  Burgess.  "And 
Joe  wants  to  sell  it  to  you.  Don't  you,  Joe?" 

[128] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


"He's  the  one  fellow  around  this  country 
that  I  would  pick  out,"  said  Darnell.  "You 
see,  Squirrel,  I'm  a  little  particular  about  who 
I  sell  this  club  to.  There's  some  people " 

"How  much?"  asked  Wicks  suddenly. 

His  direct  method  was  rather  disconcerting 
to  Darnell. 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  the  owner  of  the  fran 
chise,  beaming  upon  Wicks,  "I've  got  two 
prices.  One  price  would  be  for  a  fellow  I  liked, 
and  that  would  be  a  low  price.  The  other  price 
would  be  for  a  fellow  I  didn't  like,  and  that 
would  be  pretty  high.  Now,  I  like  you  fine, 
Squirrel,  and  I  always  did.  You  can  have  that 
ball  club  for  a  song  and  sing  it  yourself. 
Words  and  music.  I'm  an  easy  man  to  do 
business  with  if  I  like  a  fellow.  You  could 
have  that  ball  club  for  a  lot  less  money — cash, 
you  understand — than  anybody  I  know.  That 's 
because  I'm  a  friend  of  yours."  He  thrust 
his  thumbs  into  the  armholes  of  his  vest,  and 
rocked  back  and  forth  upon  the  balls  of  his 
feet.  "That's  how  strong  I  am  for  you, 
Squirrel ! ' ' 

"How  much?"  repeated  Wicks,  striking  the 
bar  with  the  flat  of  his  hand. 

Darnell  glanced  anxiously  toward  the  door. 

"Cash?"  he  asked. 

"Cash,"  answered  Wicks.  "Eight  here  on 
the  bar." 

Darnell's  eyes  left  the  door,  and  his  right 
hand  crept  back  to  his  hip  pocket.  It  was  at 
this  point  that  Burgess  began  to  realise  that  he 

[129] 


SCOKE   BY   INNINGS 


was  on  the  same  side  of  the  bar  with  Wicks; 
Darnell  could  afford  to  smile ;  he  was  protected 
by  breastwork  of  brass  and  mahogany. 

"Well,"  Joe  began  slowly,  "seeing  that  it's 
you,  and  that  you're  a  friend  of  mine,  I'd  say 
three  thousand  dollars  right  here  on  the  bar. 
That's  dirt  cheap  for  a  real  ball  club,  Squirrel, 
and  if  you  wanted  time — I — I — sa-a-y!  What 

the "  Darnell  paused,  with  his  mouth 

open,  and  not  without  cause.  At  the  words 
"three  thousand  dollars,"  Wicks  had  plunged 
his  hand  into  the  inner  pocket  of  his  coat.  The 
hand  reappeared  in  an  instant,  grasping  a  roll 
of  currency  about  the  circumference  of  a  strong 
man's  arm. 

"Wha-what  is  this?"  gasped  Darnell.  "A 
frame-up  ?  Whose  money  is  this  ? ' ' 

"Mine,"  said  Wicks.  "All  mine.  One 
hundred — two  hundred — three  hundred — four 
hun— 

"Everything  is  off!"  squalled  Darnell,  his 
piggish  eyes  upon  the  roll  of  bills.  "I  don't 
want  to  sell!  I've  changed  my  mind.  It  was 
all  a  joke ! ' ' 

"It's  no  joke,"  said  Wicks.  "Burgess  is  a 
witness." 

The  manager  of  the  Maroons  recovered  his 
staggered  faculties  with  a  whoop  of  delight. 

1 '  You  bet  I  'm  a  witness ! "  he  shouted.  ' '  You 
made  him  a  price,  Joe,  and  he  accepted  it! 
You've  sold  a  ball  club!" 

Wicks  continued  counting  calmly  until  a 
great  ragged  pile  of  currency  lay  upon  the  bar. 

[130] 


THE   SQUIRREL 


Then  he  put  the  roll,  slightly  but  not  appre 
ciably  reduced  by  the  transaction,  back  into  his 
pocket,  and  pushed  the  ragged  pile  toward 
Darnell. 

"Three  thousand  dollars  on  the  bar,"  said 
he.  "There  it  is." 

Darnell  gazed  at  the  money  with  bulging 
eyes.  Then  he  picked  up  one  of  the  gold  cer 
tificates,  and  held  it  to  the  light. 

' '  By  golly,  it  looks  good ! ' '  said  he.  ' '  Where 
did  you  get  it?" 

"From  a  lawyer,"  explained  Wicks.  "My 
father  got  mad  at  me  for  wanting  to  be  a  ball 
player,  and  I  ran  away  from  home.  When  he 
died,  there  was  nobody  to  leave  this  to  but  me, 
and— I  got  it.  That 's  all. ' ' 

"Suf-fer-ing  mackerel!"  breathed  Burgess. 
"How  much  was  it,  Wlcksey?" 

"One  hundred  and  thirty-two  thousand 
dollars — in  cash,"  said  the  Squirrel. 

Joe  Darnell  gave  up  a  groan,  which  came 
from  the  soles  of  his  shoes. 

"And  I  could  have  grabbed  him  for  ten  thou 
sand  as  easy  as  not,"  said  he. 

"If  you  wanted  more  money  you  should  have 
asked  for  it,"  said  Wicks.  "Three  thousand — 
on  the  bar — was  what  you  said." 

"I  won't  sell!"  howled  Darnell,  with  a  sud 
den  burst  of  fury.  "I  won't!  I  won't!" 

"All  right,  Joe.  You  won't."  Bowlegs 
Burgess  suddenly  thrust  himself  into  prom 
inence.  He  scooped  the  pile  of  currency  from 
the  bar,  and  placed  it  in  Wicks'  hands. 

[131] 


SCOKE    BY   INNINGS 


"What  are  you  butting  in  for?"  snarled 
Darnell.  "Keep  out  of  this!" 

"I'm  butting  in  because  I'm  Wicksey's  man 
ager,"  said  Burgess  quietly.  Then  to  Wicks, 
who  was  showing  signs  of  impatience :  "  It 's  all 
right,  old  boy!  let  me  deal  with  this  stiff." 
Burgess  moved  down  toward  the  end  of  the 
bar,  and  Darnell  followed  him,  whispering  ex 
citedly  : 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Burgess? 
Get  onto  yourself!  Here's  the  softest  thing 
that  ever  lit  in  this  town !  I  can  get  the  whole 
bundle  away  from  him,  and  I  '11  give  you  a  split 
of  it!  Take  a  tumble,  and  help  me  push  it 
along!" 

Burgess  smiled  a  nasty  smile. 

"Taking  candy  from  babies  is  the  best  thing 
you  do,  ain't  it?"  he  sneered.  "You  ain't  go 
ing  to  rob  this  poor  nut  because  I  won't  stand 
for  it,  see?  He's  offered  you  three  thousand 
dollars  in  regular  money  for  a  ball  club  that 
ain't  worth  three  thousand  cents.  You've  been 
trying  to  sell  out  for  fifteen  hundred,  and  every 
sensible  man  in  town  has  been  giving  you  the 
laugh.  Now,  here's  something  that  you  can 
write  in  your  little  brown  hat;  it's  three  thou 
sand  dollars  or  nothing.  Take  it  or  leave 
it!" 

"But  won't  you  listen  to  reason?"  pleaded 
Darnell. 

Burgess  turned  on  his  heel,  and  walked  away. 

"Come  on,  Wicksey,"  said  he.  "We'll  go 
and  buy  the  Piketown  club." 

[132] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


1 '  Hold  on  a  minute ! ' '  said  Darnell.  ' '  What 's 
the  hurry?" 

A  policeman  dodged  in  at  the  door,  and 
looked  around  the  room. 

" What's  coming  off  here?"  asked  the 
officer. 

Darnell  looked  at  the  money  in  the  Squirrel 's 
hands,  and  then  he  looked  at  the  obstinate  angle 
of  Burgess'  chin. 

"All  right,"  he  grunted.  "You've  bought  a 
ball  club,  Wicks.  Gimme  the  money!" 

Officer  Shea  stuffed  the  handcuffs  back  into 
his  pocket,  and  looked  foolish. 

"I — I  thought  there  was  some  trouble  here," 
he  stammered.  "The  chief  said " 

"No  trouble  at  all,"  said  Burgess.  "Shea, 
meet  Mr.  Wicks  here.  He's  just  bought  the 
baseball  club." 

"Yes,  and  I'm  going  to  pitch  to-morrow," 
said  Wicks. 


News  of  any  sort  wears  wings  in  a  small 
town.  Before  nightfall  it  was  truly  amazing 
how  many  of  the  citizens  of  Booneville  had 
placed  themselves  on  record  as  believing  that 
Sq — Elmer  Wicks  had  never  been  anything  but 
— er — eccentric. 

On  the  closing  Sunday  afternoon,  the  Maroon 
park  held  the  banner  crowd  of  the  season,  and 
when  Owner  Wicks,  in  his  faded  and  patched 
uniform,  stood  forth  to  warm  up  with  his  sorry 

[133] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


pitching  staff,  the  cheers  rattled  the  shingles  on 
the  grand-stand  roof. 

Bowlegs  Burgess,  who  had  the  germ  of  di 
plomacy  concealed  somewhere  upon  his  person, 
held  an  intimate  conference  with  Lawrence 
McGuigan,  chief  of  the  Piketown  Reds. 

"Now,  here's  the  way  she  stands,"  said 
Burgess.  "The  Squirrel  is  just  as  much  of  a 
nut  as  he  ever  was,  but  he's  got  money  now, 
and  people  with  money  have  to  be  humoured. 
All  these  rich  guys  have  their  hobbies.  John 
D.  plays  golf;  Andy  Carnegie  gives  away 
libraries.  Wicksey's  hobby  is  wanting  to  see 
'em  swing  their  heads  off  at  that  third  strike. 
What  do  you  say?" 

Lawrence  McGuigan  needed  no  brick  house 
to  fall  upon  him.  He  grinned  from  ear  to 
ear. 

"What's  the  closing  game  of  the  season — 
between  friends?"  said  he.  "It  wouldn't  sur 
prise  me  a  bit  if  the  Squirrel  got  the  season's 
strike-out  record  this  afternoon." 

"Fine!"  said  Burgess.  "But  don't  bur 
lesque  it  too  strong.  Sometimes  I  think  this 
guy  ain't  all  crazy  at  that,  and  remember  he 
always  did  have  baseball  sense.  Make  it  look 
as  good  as  you  can,  Larry,  and  the  Lord  bless 
you  for  an  understanding  mick ! ' ' 

That  game  is  still  a  joyous  memory  in  Boone- 
ville.  For  nine  innings  the  Squirrel  hurled  the 
ball  in  the  general  direction  of  the  plate,  and 
no  less  than  eighteen  of  Piketown 's  noble 
athletes  fanned  the  air  with  giant  swings.  No 

[134] 


THE    SQUIRREL 


third  strike  was  called  that  afternoon.  The 
final  score  was  eleven  to  nothing,  in  favour  of 
the  Maroons. 

The  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  filtering  through 
the  cracks  in  the  dressing-room,  gilded  the  new 
owner  of  the  Booneville  franchise,  as  he  sat  on 
the  bench  in  front  of  his  old  locker,  and 
thoughtfully  explored  a  knot  hole  in  the  floor 
with  the  toe  of  his  left  shoe.  Bowlegs  Burgess, 
half  in  and  half  out  of  his  other  shirt,  grinned 
across  the  litter  at  the  familiar  picture. 

"Does  it  seem  like  home  to  you  I"  he  asked. 

"You  bet!"  said  Wicks  fervently.  "Say, 
Burgess!" 

"Well?" 

"How — how  did  I  look  in  there  to-day? 
Pretty  good?" 

"Great!"  said  Burgess  enthusiastically. 
"You  had  everything,  Wicksey!  Speed  and 
control,  and  a  lot  of  stuff  on  the  third  one 
always.  Nothing  to  it,  you're  some  southpaw 
yet!" 

The  Squirrel  heaved  a  long  sigh,  and  sought 
the  knot  hole  again. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I'm  glad  I  looked  all 
right,  because  I  felt  rotten.  Seemed  to  me  they 
swung  at  a  lot  of  bad  ones.  I  don't  think  I'll 
take  a  regular  turn  in  the  box  next  season. 
I'll  just  pitch  on  my  birthday  and  the  Fourth 
of  July,  eh?" 

"Whatever  you  say,  Wicksey.  You're  the 
boss." 

"I  don't  want  to  pitch  myself  out,"  said  the 
[135] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


Squirrel  gravely.     "I  want  to  last  as  long  as 
I  can. ' ' 

Squirrel  Wicks  is  still  the  owner  of  the 
Booneville  franchise  in  the  D.  L.  D.  League, 
and  Bowlegs  Burgess  is  his  manager.  Salaries 
have  been  raised,  and  the  Maroons  are  on  their 
way  to  a  pennant.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  owner  has  been  beaten  by  overwhelming 
scores  in  his  last  three  starts,  Burgess  insists 
that  he  is  still  "some  southpaw." 


[136] 


I    0    U 


BELIEVE  me  or  not,  it  wasn't  the  seventy- 
five  fish  that  hurt.     I  have  often  been 
touched  for  that  much  money  without 
bleeding  internally,  and  if  I  have  luck  I 
expect  to  be  touched  for  a  lot  more.    I  have  had 
enough  bees  put  on  me  to  stock  an  apiary;  one 
stinging  more  or  less  is  nothing  whatever  in  my 
young  life,  but  I  liked  Dudley  W.  Fowler — 
liked  him  a  whole  lot;  and  it  was  finding  out 
that  Dudley  wasn't  real  folks  that  hurt  me. 
He  was  welcome  to  the  money,  but  I  hated  to 
change  my  opinion  of  him.    Did  you  ever  feel 
that  way  about  a  fellow? 

Then,  again,  I  owed  Dudley  something;  the 
town  of  Brownsville  owed  him  something;  and, 
though  his  method  of  collecting  wasn't  exactly 
what  it  should  have  been,  we  were  disposed  to 
let  him  get  away  with  it,  until — but  that's  the 
story. 

Brownsville  has  always  been  baseball  crazy. 
We  have  never  had  a  league  of  our  own  to  cheer 
for;  so  we  have  adopted  the  whole  bunch, 
majors  and  minors.  Every  time  a  World's 
Series  comes  along  there  is  a  riot  outside  the 

[137] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


office  of  the  Sentinel,  with  arguments  and  fist 
fights,  and  everything  that  they  have  in  New 
York  and  Chicago.  We  read  the  sporting 
papers,  and  we  feel  as  much  interest  in  the  big 
fellows  as  if  we  lived  in  their  towns  and  saw 
their  games. 

In  the  fall  of  1912  we  were  pretty  well  stirred 
up  over  the  approaching  World's  Series  be 
tween  the  Eed  Sox  and  the  Giants.  One  after 
noon  late  in  September,  when  we  were  figuring 
what  McGraw  ought  to  do  to  win,  Archie  Mc- 
Nutt  came  rolling  in  from  Pleasanton. 

Pleasanton  is  the  cool  summer  nest  of  the 
idle  rich,  north  of  here,  in  the  mountains.  It 
hasn't  a  daily  paper  or  a  Chamber  of  Com 
merce,  but  it  has  nine  garages  and  two  country 
clubs,  and  golf  is  about  as  far  as  Pleasanton 
goes  in  the  sporting  line.  Archie  McNutt  is 
one  of  their  leading  citizens,  on  the  links  and 
elsewhere,  and  he  hasn't  been  entirely  spoiled 
by  the  money  his  father  left  him. 

He  listened  to  our  conversation  for  a  while, 
humped  down  behind  the  wheel  of  a  long,  nar 
row  roadster,  and  then  he  said  he  didn't  see 
how  we  could  milk  so  much  excitement  off  the 
end  of  a  telegraph  wire. 

"I  would  rather,"  says  he,  " watch  two  scrub 
teams  battling  on  a  sand-lot  for  a  keg  of  beer 
than  read  the  returns  on  the  hottest  World's 
Series  ever  staged.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  or 
ganise  a  team  of  your  own  and  have  something 
to  get  excited  about?" 

"Oh,  we  got  plenty  of  players,"  says  Harley 
[138] 


I   O    U 


Freeman,  "but  they  ain't  any  teams  to  play 
with,  'less  we  go  outside  the  county." 

"Is  that  so?"  says  Archie.  "I'll  get  up  a 
team  and  go  against  you." 

"You  forget  we  ain't  got  any  golf  clubs," 
says  Old  Man  Sherwood.  Archie  overlooked 
the  sarcasm. 

"Tell  you  what  let's  do,"  says  he:  "Let's 
have  a  little  World's  Series  of  our  own,  the  first 
team  winning  four  games  to  claim  the  cham 
pionship  of  the  county.  Donate  the  gate  re 
ceipts  to  charity." 

*  *  Hold  on ! "  says  I.  "If  Pleasant  on  wins  you 
can  do  anything  you  like  with  the  gate  receipts. 
If  we  win  the  boys  can  split  up  the  dough. 
They  ain't  squeamish  about  their  amateur 
standings." 

"Any  way  you  like,"  says  Archie.  "All  I 
want  is  two  weeks'  time  to  get  my  men  in 
shape." 

They  voted  me  the  manager  of  the  Browns 
ville  team,  with  authority  to  go  ahead  and  get 
one  together.  Jack  Jamieson  helped  me  a  lot. 
He  was  in  the  American  Association  for  two 
years  before  he  decided  to  quit  baseball  and 
go  into  business.  He  was  still  a  cracking  good 
man  behind  the  bat,  though  not  so  fast  on  his 
feet  as  he  used  to  be.  Jack  looked  over  the 
volunteers  for  the  different  positions  and 
picked  the  best  of  the  talent  that  offered.  We 
had  outfielders  galore,  and  infielders  all  over 
the  place,  but  we  seemed  to  be  up  against  it  for 
first-class  pitching.  Plenty  of  the  Brownsville 

[139] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


boys  thought  they  could  pitch,  when  all  they 
had  was  a  roundhouse  curve  or  a  fast  straight 
ball.  Jack  tried  out  all  the  candidates  before 
he  made  a  report. 

1  'I  guess  we'll  have  to  take  Charlie  Nobles," 
says  he.  "He's  got  more  than  any  of  the 
others,  which  ain't  saying  a  whole  lot;  but  he 
may  be  able  to  put  it  over  on  a  team  of  re 
formed  golf  players." 

The  first  game  of  the  championship  series 
was  played  on  our  home  grounds  and  was  a 
painful  surprise  to  Brownsville.  Archie  Mc- 
Nutt  pulled  a  lot  of  rah-rah  boys  on  us;  includ 
ing  a  young  pitcher  that  would  have  been  trying 
out  with  Detroit  if  his  dad  hadn't  owned  an 
automobile  factory.  This  pitcher's  name  was 
Sassman;  he  was  wrynecked  and  knock-kneed 
and  left-handed,  and  he  pitched  baseball  as  hard 
as  if  he  depended  on  it  for  his  daily  bread.  We 
only  got  two  runs  off  him,  while  the  Pleasanton 
boys  were  walloping  Charlie  Nobles  all  over 
Recreation  Park.  The  final  score  was  eleven 
to  two,  which  made  us  feel  pretty  sick. 

That  night  Jack  came  over  to  my  place — the 
De  Luxe  Billiard  and  Pool  Parlours — and  we 
held  a  council  of  war  in  the  private  office. 

"Nothing  to  it!"  says  he.  "Nobles  ain't 
good  enough  for  these  college  athletes.  All 
he's  got  is  a  groover,  and  they  laid  for  it  and 
murdered  it.  If  we  don't  pick  up  a  real  pitcher 
somewhere  they'll  take  four  straight  from  us." 

Well,  that  wasn't  any  news  to  me;  but  where 
were  we  going  to  get  this  twirler?  I  didn't 

[140] 


I   O    U 


know;  Jack  didn't  know — and  just  then  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  in  walked  Dudley 
W.  Fowler.  He  was  a  tall,  slim,  good-looking 
chap  in  those  days,  not  more  than  twenty-three 
or  twenty-four,  with  the  nerve  of  a  burglar  and 
a  smile  that  warmed  you  in  spite  of  yourself. 

"Ah,  gentlemen,"  says  he,  taking  off  his 
hat,  "something  tells  me  that  I'm  the  man 
you're  looking  for." 

"What  told  you  we  would  be  looking  for 
anybody?"  asks  Jack,  short  and  snappy. 

"My  friend,"  says  Dudley,  "it  was  the  sama 
thing  that  told  me  you've  been  some  catcher  in 
your  time.  I  never  laid  eyes  on  you  before, 
this  afternoon,  but  I  know  a  real  ball  player 
when  I  see  one.  You  loomed  up  in  that  com 
pany — believe  me!" 

"Well?"  says  Jack.    "What  of  it?" 

"If  you  had  a  pitcher  to  work  with  you," 
says  Dudley,  "you  could  beat  these  dudes  from 
Pleasanton.  A  good  curve  ball  would  make 
suckers  of  'em." 

"Well?"  says  Jack. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  says  Dudley,  "only  I've  got 
a  good  curve  ball — among  other  things.  I  hate 
to  talk  about  myself, ' '  says  he,  reaching  into  his 
inside  pocket,  "but  you  might  glance  over  these 
newspaper  clippings.  Fowler,  that's  me — Dud 
ley  W.  Fowler.  I  could  use  a  job  in  my  busi 
ness  right  now,  and  you  could  use  a  winning 
pitcher.  How  about  it  ? " 

"Sit  down,"  says  Jack,  "till  I  look  these 
over." 

[141] 


SCORE   BY    INNINGS 


That  was  how  Dudley  W.  Fowler  came  to 
Brownsville. 


n 


The  newspaper  clippings  said  that  Dudley 
was  considerable  pitcher,  and  they  didn't  give 
him  any  the  best  of  it  at  that.  Jack  took  him 
out  to  the  park  the  first  thing  in  the  morning 
to  see  what  he  had  in  stock,  and  by  eleven 
o'clock  the  old  boy  was  back  again,  all  lathered 
up  with  good  news  and  enthusiasm. 

'  *  He 's  a  wiz ! ' '  says  Jack  to  me.  '  *  Got  every 
thing  a  pitcher  ought  to  have — a  grand  curve 
ball,  a  swell  fast  one  with  a  hop  on  it,  and  con 
trol  till  you  can't  rest.  Darned  if  I  can  figure 
how  he's  managed  to  keep  out  of  the  Big 
Leagues  with  all  that  stuff.  I'm  going  to  cover 
a  bunch  of  that  Pleasanton  money  they  were 
shoving  under  our  noses  yesterday — that's  how 
good  I  think  he  is!" 

The  schedule  called  for  two  games  a  week- 
Tuesdays  and  Saturdays — alternating  between 
the  towns.  The  second  game  was  played  in 
Pleasanton,  and  the  automobile  crowd  un 
belted  their  idle  bank  rolls  and  bet  us  to  a  stand 
still,  giving  us  odds  of  seven  to  five.  That  was 
because  they  saw  poor  old  Nobles  out  there, 
pretending  to  warm  up.  I  left  Charlie  on  ex 
hibition  until  Harley  Freeman  flashed  me  the 
signal  that  all  our  money  was  down ;  and  then 
Nobles  came  back  to  the  bench  and  Dudley  went 
out  to  unlimber  a  few.  A  chill  came  over  the 

[142] 


I   O    U 

aristocrats  as  they  watched  the  stranger  warm 
up.  They  seemed  to  feel  that  we  had  taken  a 
mean  advantage  of  them.  Archie,  who  was 
playing  second  base  for  his  team,  tried  to  start 
an  argument. 

"Of  course,"  says  he,  "nothing  was  said 
about  barring  professionals,  but  we  understood 
this  was  to  be  confined  to  the  townspeople." 

"Yes,"  says  I;  "and,  of  course,  it  ain't  any 
crime  to  spring  a  crack  college  battery  on  us, 
is  it?  This  knock-kneed  pitcher  of  yours  turned 
down  some  Big  League  offers.  Want  some 
thing  soft?" 

"But  you  had  Nobles  warming  up." 

"Well,  what  of  it?  Since  when  has  a  man 
ager  had  to  pitch  a  man  just  because  he  warms 
him  up?" 

"It's  sharp  practice,"  says  Archie. 

"But  it's  going  to  sharpen  the  competition 
a  whole  lot,"  says  I.  "This  won't  be  any 
eleven-to-two  slaughter — take  it  from  me!" 

It  wasn't.  Young  Mr.  Sassman  straightened 
out  his  wry  neck  and  pitched  all  the  ball  he 
knew  how,  which  was  a  lot,  but  the  team  behind 
him  was  about  as  much  help  as  a  sore  thumb. 
They  fielded  well  enough,  but  they  couldn't  do 
a  thing  with  Dudley.  His  curve  ball  had  them 
all  guessing;  and  when  they  thought  they  had 
solved  it  he  switched  to  his  fast  one  and  kept 
the  ball  high  up  and  too  close  for  comfort. 
Early  in  the  game  old  Jack  got  hold  of  the  pill 
with  the  bases  full,  and  the  three  runs  he  drove 
home  were  the  only  ones  scored  in  the  contest. 

[143] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


That  night  there  was  a  celebration  in 
Brownsville,  with  Dudley  W.  Fowler  the  guest 
of  honour.  Another  youngster  might  have 
puffed  up  a  bit  under  all  the  kind  words  and 
compliments,  but  he  only  grinned  in  a  modest 
way  and  handed  a  lot  of  the  credit  to  Jack 
Jamieson.  He  said  a  man  couldn't  help  but 
pitch  winning  ball  to  such  a  catcher;  and  nat 
urally  this  made  a  big  hit  with  our  folks,  and 
didn't  hurt  Jack's  feelings  any,  either. 

Late  that  night  Dudley  showed  up  at  the  pool 
room  and  went  into  the  private  office.  When 
I  opened  the  door  he  was  sitting  at  the  table 
with  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"What's  the  matter?"  says  I.     "Sick?" 

' '  No, ' '  says  he,  looking  up  and  sighing.  *  *  No. 
Just  worried — that's  all.  Don't  you  care.  It 
ain't  any  of  your  trouble." 

"What's  on  your  mind,  son!" 

"Nothing  much,"  says  he,  and  sighs  again. 

"You  better  tell  me  about  it.  Maybe  I  can 
help  you." 

"Thank  you  just  the  same.  It's  mighty  fine 
of  you,  but — I'll  get  through  somehow.  I  can 
ask  my  folks  to  wait  a  few  days." 

"Ask  'em  to  wait  for  what?" 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  room. 

"Well,  you  see,"  says  he,  "it's  like  this: 
My  old  man  is  in  the  hospital  out  in  Denver, 
and  he's  got  to  have  an  operation.  My  sister 
wrote  me  about  it  last  week,  and  I  sent  her  all 
the  dough  I  had — all  I  could  spare,  anyway— 

[144] 


I    O    U 

and  I  thought  they  could  get  along  on  that  until 
I  could  pick  up  some  more.  It  seems  it  wasn't 
enough.  Now  you've  guaranteed  me  two  hun 
dred  dollars  if  we  win  this  series,  and  you've 
told  me  I  won't  lose  anything  even  if  we  get 
beat;  but  we  won't  know  for  two  weeks  how 
we  come  out— 

" Don't  let  that  worry  you  for  a  minute!" 
says  I,  reaching  into  my  pocket.  "I  won  quite 
a  little  chunk  on  the  game  to-day,  and  you're 
welcome  to  any  part  of  it." 

' 'Thank  you  just  the  same,"  says  he,  "but 
I'd  rather  not  borrow.  I  have  a  kind  of  a  dread 
of  getting  into  debt.  Maybe  I  can  struggle 
through  some  other  way — hock  my  watch,  or 
something. ' ' 

"Rats!"  says  I,  pulling  out  my  roll.  "How 
much?" 

"You're  an  awful  good  guy!"  says  Dudley. 
"Got  a  heart  like  an  ox,  and — well,  if  you  in 
sist,  say  seventy-five.  It's  a  life-saver  to  me— 
that's  what  it  is — and  I'll  slip  it  to  you  after 
the  series  is  over." 

"Then  or  any  other  time  is  all  the  same  to 
me.  You're  as  welcome  as  the  flowers  in 
spring. ' ' 

And  I  wouldn't  have  said  it  if  I  hadn't  meant 
it.  He  could  have  tacked  a  century  onto  that 
seventy-five  just  as  well  as  not. 

"I'll  give  you  my  I  0  U,"  says  he,  fishing 
out  an  envelope  and  a  pencil. 

"Oh,  never  mind  that!    Forget  it!" 

"I  don't  want  to  forget  it,"  says  he,  writing 
[145] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


on  the  back  of  the  envelope.  "There!  'I  0  U 
seventy-five  dollars.  Dudley  W.  Fowler.  Sep 
tember,  1912.'  That's  just  the  same  as  a  prom 
issory  note,  ain't  it? "  He  signed  his  name  with 
a  lot  of  curlicues  and  flourishes,  and  handed 
the  envelope  to  me.  "Keep  that  as  a  record," 
says  he,  pouching  the  seventy-five  fish  like  a 
hungry  pelican.  "Gee,  you  don't  know  what 
a  load  that  takes  off  my  mind!  There's  only 
one  thing  tougher  than  being  broke,  and  that's 
having  to  let  people  know  about  it.  The  folks 
here  have  treated  me  so  well  that  I'd  kind  of 

hate  to  have  them  find  out  that  I — I "  He 

stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

"I  ain't  going  to  tell  anybody,"  says  I. 
"This  is  a  private  matter — between  us  two." 

"You  are  a  good  guy!"  says  he,  dropping  his 
arm  across  my  shoulders.  "I  guess  I'm  sensi 
tive,  because  I've  never  had  to  do  this  before." 

"When  you've  borrowed  as  much  money  as 
I  have,"  I  says,  "you  won't  think  any  more 
of  it  than  you  do  of  taking  a  drink  of  water. 
.  .  .  What  did  you  say  ailed  your  old  man?" 

To  cut  our  own  little  World's  Series  to  a 
composite  box  score,  Dudley  pitched  four 
games  for  us  and  won  them  all.  Archie  Mc- 
Nutt  said  he'd  rather  lose  with  a  team  of  gen 
tlemen  than  import  any  muckers,  and  he  had 
his  wish.  Sassman  stuck  to  the  bitter  end  and 
took  his  trimmings  like  a  little  man,  and  Dud 
ley  became  more  and  more  of  an  idol  in  Browns 
ville. 

[146] 


I   O    U 

The  last  game  was  played  on  our  grounds; 
and  that  night  Old  Man  Sherwood  gave  the 
boys  a  banquet  at  the  Palace  Hotel  and  al 
lowed  several  of  the  fans  to  buy  in  at  two 
dollars  a  plate.  Old  Man  Sherwood  runs  the 
hotel;  and,  as  he  served  the  regular  seventy- 
five-cent  dinner  to  the  banqueters,  he  didn't 
lose  anything  by  letting  the  players  in  free. 

Jack  Jamieson  and  I  had  a  little  confidential 
talk  before  we  went  over  to  the  hotel.  We  had 
just  finished  figuring  up  the  total  gate  receipts. 
They  ran  almost  double  what  we  had  counted  on. 

" Let's  see:  We  promised  Fowler  two  hun 
dred  in  case  we  wTon?"  says  Jack. 

"That  was  the  agreement — yes." 

"And  he  won  the  series  single-handed,  you 
might  say.  What's  the  matter  with  showing 
our  appreciation  in  the  shape  of  a  cash  bonus? 
We've  all  won  money  on  the  side,  betting  on 
the  games." 

The  proposition  sounded  good  to  me  on 
account  of  my  liking  Dudley  so  well ;  so  we  put 
three  hundred  dollars  in  an  envelope  and  took 
it  over  to  the  hotel — the  two  hundred  we  owed 
the  boy  and  another  hundred  as  a  bonus.  Jack 
was  for  having  Old  Man  Sherwood  present 
the  dough  after  making  a  speech,  but  I  vetoed 
the  suggestion. 

"Old  Man  Sherwood  always  gets  balled  up 
when  he  makes  a  speech,"  says  I,  "and  rings 
in  Gettysburg  and  the  Battle  of  the  Wilder 
ness.  Chances  are  he'd  want  to  count  the 
money  out  on  the  table  before  everybody,  and 

[147] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


make  Dudley  feel  like  a  pauper.  I'll  pass  him 
the  envelope  on  the  strict  Q.  T.,  and  tell  him 
there's  a  little  something  extra  in  it  to  show 
our  appreciation." 

The  banquet,  outside  of  the  food,  was  a  great 
success;  and  everybody  made  speeches.  Even 
Jack  Jamieson  said  a  few  words,  to  the  effect 
that  he  had  seen  'em  come  and  he  had  seen 
'em  go,  and  that  he  had  caught  some  pretty 
fair  pitchers  in  his  day,  but  never  one  like 
little  old  Dud,  who  was  there  a  million,  be 
sides  being  the  best  of  good  fellers,  and  ought 
to  be  pitching  for  Mack  or  McGraw  instead  of 
wasting  his  time  in  the  bushes. 

We  finally  got  Dudley  on  his  feet;  but  he 
couldn't  say  much,  except  that  he  had  done 
his  best,  and  that  wherever  he  went  or  what 
ever  happened  to  him  he  should  always  re 
member  Brownsville  and  the  best  crowd  ,of 
real,  true  sports  in  the  world — which,  we  took 
it,  was  us.  When  it  was  all  over  I  took  Dudley 
aside  and  slipped  him  the  envelope. 

"Here's  what  we  agreed  to  give  you,"  says 
I,  "and  a  little  present  from  the  boys,  on  the 
side." 

Now  an  ordinary  roughneck  ball  player 
would  have  counted  his  dough  then  and  there, 
to  see  how  much  that  little  present  amounted 
to ;  but  Dudley  handled  all  money  matters  with 
delicacy  and  taste.  He  stuffed  the  envelope 
into  his  pocket  without  even  looking  at  it,  and 
kind  of  choked  up. 

"I'll  bet  you  told  'em  to  do  it,"  says  he, 
[148] 


I   O   U 

putting  his  arm  across  my  shoulders.  "You 
are  a  good  guy !  You  knew  how  much  I  needed 
it,  didn't  you?" 

4 'Yes;  but  Jamieson  didn't,"  says  I,  "and 
he  was  the  one  who  suggested  it." 

Now  if  you'll  believe  me — and  what's  the 
use  of  your  reading  this  little  piece  unless  you 
do? — I  never  once  thought  of  that  I  0  U  in 
my  pocket;  and  if  I  had  thought  of  it  I 
wouldn't  have  fished  it  out  for  the  world.  It 
might  have  hurt  his  feelings — given  him  the 
idea  that  I  was  Johnny-on-the-spot — like  a  bill 
collector  on  Saturday  night — on  hand  when  I 
knew  he  had  the  coin,  and  taking  no  chances. 
I  wouldn't  choose  him  to  think  I  was  that  kind 
of  a  man. 

About  noon  the  next  day  Old  Man  Sherwood 
came  toddling  into  my  place,  all  excited  and 
breathless. 

"He's  gone!"  says  he. 

"Gone?    Who's  gone?"  says  I. 

"Why,  young  Fowler — Dudley." 

"No!" 

"Yes,  I  tell  you:  yes!  I  didn't  disturb  him 
for  breakfast,  knowin'  he  was  up  late  last 
night;  but  at  eleven  o'clock  I  give  him  a  bell 
or  two.  He  didn't  answer — and  good  reason 
why!  He  wasn't  there.  Bed  hadn't  been 
slept  in  nor  nothin'!  The  station  agent  saw 
him  hop  onto  the  through  Western  Express  at 
three  this  mornin' " 

"And  you're  worried  about  his  bill?" 
says  I. 

[149] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


"Hell,  no!"  says  Old  Man  Sherwood.  "I 
was  goin'  to  make  him  a  complimentary  guest 
anyway,  'count  of  winnin'  some  money  on  his 
pitchin'.  Been  a  long  time  since  I  took  such 
a  shine  to  a  youngster.  Dog-gone  it,  I  liked 
him,  Bill,  and  I'm  sorry  he  didn't  say  good 
bye—that's  all." 

"You've  got  nothing  on  me,"  says  I.  "He 
likely  had  his  reasons  for  ducking  out  in  a 
hurry.  He'll  write,  or  telegraph  or  some 
thing;  see  if  he  doesn't." 

I  got  my  letter  the  next  day,  mailed  from 
the  train.  Dudley  said  he  was  sorry  he  had 
to  leave  in  such  a  hurry,  on  account  of  start 
ing  West  to  see  how  his  father  was  making  it ; 
and  as  for  that  little  business  matter  he  would 
take  care  of  it  as  soon  as  convenient.  The 
letter  was  signed:  "Yours  affectionately." 

Well,  that  was  all  right.  Seventy-five  one 
way  or  the  other  wouldn't  make  or  break  me; 
the  boy  was  welcome  to  it  as  long  as  he  needed 
it.  Jack  Jamieson  got  a  note  from  him  too; 
and  so  did  Harley  Freeman,  and  Old  Man 
Sherwood,  and  some  of  the  others. 

Evidently  Dudley  didn't  find  it  convenient 
to  take  care  of  the  little  business  matter,  be 
cause  he  didn't  write  again.  I  supposed  it 
was  on  account  of  his  not  being  able  to  do 
much  pitching  in  the  wintertime,  and  let  it 
go  at  that. 

The  weeks  slipped  into  months  and  gradually 
we  forgot  him — out  of  sight,  out  of  mind,  like 
the  saying  goes.  Whenever  I  opened  up  my 

[150] 


I   O   U 

pocketbook  the  I  0  U  would  remind  me  of  him, 
and  I'd  wonder  where  he  was  and  how  he  was 
making  it.  I  had  confidence  in  Dudley,  and  I 
didn't  count  that  seventy-five  as  gone  entirely. 
I  expected  to  hear  from  him  some  day — when  it 
was  convenient. 

We  all  got  news  of  him  the  next  spring- 
news  that  tore  up  the  town  of  Brownsville  like 
a  forty-two-centimetre  shell.  We  found  it  in 
the  weekly  sporting  papers — a  paragraph  say 
ing  that  the  Orphans  had  picked  up  a  promis 
ing  recruit  pitcher  in  the  person  of  one  Dudley 
W.  Fowler,  a  semiprofessional  star  of  the  first 
magnitude.  That  was  all  it  said,  but  it  was 
enough  to  set  us  running  round  in  circles  and 
throwing  our  hats  in  the  air. 

We  were  just  as  proud  of  Dudley  as  if  he  had 
been  born  and  raised  in  Brownsville,  and  it 
tickled  us  to  think  that,  after  all  these  years,  we 
were  going  to  have  a  real  Big  League  represen 
tative — some  one  in  whom  we  could  feel  a  per 
sonal  interest.  We  wouldn't  have  to  take  a 
back  seat  any  more  when  the  cigar  drummers 
told  us  how  well  they  knew  Ty  Cobb  and  Christy 
Mathewson.  We  could  lay  back  and  wait  for 
an  opening  in  the  conversation,  and  then  spring 
it,  sort  of  casual-like : 

"  Speaking  of  pitchers,  when  Dud  Fowler 
was  on  our  team " 

Before  we  saw  that  paragraph  in  the  paper 
we  had  never  been  able  to  crank  up  much  in 
terest  in  the  Orphans,  the  general  opinion  being 

[151] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


that  they  were  just  in  there  to  round  out  an 
eight-club  circuit  and  didn't  amount  to  much, 
anyhow;  but  it  was  remarkable  how  sentiment 
changed  overnight.  We  hadn't  been  able  to  see 
the  Orphans  as  a  pennant  possibility,  but  now 
we  couldn't  see  anything  else;  we  knew  that 
all  they  needed  to  put  them  in  the  running  was 
one  more  good  right-hander  like  Dudley.  We 
forgot  all  about  the  Giants  and  the  Cubs  and 
the  Pirates,  and  became  Orphan  fans  through 
and  through — we  might  have  been  a  suburb  of 
their  home  town,  the  way  we  carried  on. 

We  subscribed  to  a  lot  of  newspapers,  so  we 
could  get  full  reports  from  their  training  camp, 
and  not  a  word  about  Fowler  escaped  us.  They 
were  mostly  good  words  too — they  usually  are 
before  the  season  opens — and  when  the  report 
ers  spoke  of  him  as  a  comer  and  praised  his 
curve  ball,  we  were  as  delighted  as  if  they  had 
said  something  complimentary  about  us. 

I  wrote  Dudley  a  letter — a  long  one,  telling 
him  all  the  news  of  the  gang,  and  how  glad  we 
were  that  he  had  made  the  grade  and  got  in 
where  he  belonged;  but  he  never  answered  it. 
It  was  mailed  about  the  time  the  Orphans  broke 
up  their  training  camp  and  started  North;  so 
I  figured  it  might  not  have  been  forwarded 
properly. 

When  the  season  opened  we  could  hardly  wait 
for  Dudley  to  pitch  his  first  game.  Seeing  that 
there  was  so  much  interest,  the  editor  of  the 
Sentinel  arranged  to  get  a  telegraphic  bulletin 
on  the  Orphan  games,  inning  by  inning,  with 

[152] 


I   O   U 

the  batteries;  and  the  first  time  Dudley's  name 
went  up  on  the  board  the  whole  town  closed  up 
to  watch  the  returns. 

'  *  Hey !  Come  on  over  to  the  Sentinel  office. 
He's  goin'  to  pitch!" 

That  was  the  word  which  rallied  the  Browns 
ville  fans  to  a  man.  The  Orphans  were  play 
ing  at  the  Polo  Grounds,  and  Dudley  was  up 
against  big  Jeff  Tesreau  and  the  Giants;  but 
that  didn't  make  any  difference  to  us.  We 
stood  there  in  the  street  and  rooted  for  him 
while  the  ciphers  kept  going  up,  and  when  the 
Orphans  scored  three  runs  in  the  seventh  in 
ning  I'll  bet  they  could  have  heard  us  in 
Pleasanton. 

The  Giants  got  to  Dudley  for  a  run  in  the 
eighth,  but  that  was  all;  and  there  was  a  hot 
time  in  Brownsville  that  night — believe  me! 
We  sent  Dudley  a  telegram  congratulating  him 
and  telling  him  to  keep  up  the  good  work;  and 
the  Sentinel  ordered  a  full  account  of  the  game 
from  one  of  the  New  York  papers  and  smeared 
it  all  over  the  front  page  under  the  heading: 
" Local  Boy  Makes  Good!" 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Dudley's  winning 
streak.  He  went  right  down  the  line,  taking  his 
regular  turn  in  the  box,  and  all  teams  looked 
alike  to  him.  The  wise  Eastern  critics  said  he 
was  another  Alexander,  and  the  greatest  dis 
covery  of  the  season;  and  every  time  he  added 
a  victory  to  his  string  there  was  a  riot  in 
Brownsville.  You  couldn't  have  told  us  that 
Dudley  wasn't  the  greatest  right-hander  that 

[153] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


ever  lived — not  without  taking  desperate 
chances. 

It  was  after  he  won  his  ninth  game  that  we 
began  to  talk  about  getting  up  a  party  to  go 
over  to  Chicago  and  watch  him  hang  it  on  the 
Cubs.  I  don't  know  who  proposed  it  in  the  first 
place — the  idea  seemed  to  hit  us  all  about  the 
same  time.  We  dug  up  the  National  League 
schedule  and  did  some  figuring  on  dates  and 
things,  and  then  Jack  Jamieson  took  the  floor. 

"If  he  pitches  in  his  regular  turn  they'll 
stick  him  in  Monday  to  open  the  series,"  says 
he.  "We  could  leave  here  Sunday  night  and 
get  into  Chicago  in  time  for  the  game,  visit 
round  with  Dudley  afterward,  and  get 
back  here  Wednesday  or  Thursday.  All  in 
favour 

The  motion  carried,  with  a  whoop  and  a  yell. 
The  loudest  whooper  in  the  lot  was  Old  Man 
Sherwood.  He  said  the  Palace  Hotel  could  run 
itself  while  he  was  gone.  There  were  nine  of 
us  in  all — Jamieson,  Harley,  Freeman,  Old 
Man  Sherwood,  Dutch  Coffman,  Frank  Sper- 
lock,  Eddie  McManus,  Joe  Parker,  Marty 
Leach  and  me. 

Some  of  the  boys  had  to  pretend  they  had 
important  business  in  Chicago  in  order  to 
square  it  with  their  wives ;  but  the  whole  town 
knew  better  than  that,  and  quite  a  mob  turned 
up  at  the  depot  to  see  us  off.  Every  man, 
woman  and  child  wanted  to  send  a  message  to 
Dudley,  telling  him  they  were  pulling  for  him 
to  get  into  the  World's  Series  and  win  it.  We 

[154] 


I   O   U 

carried   enough   good  wishes   to  make   us   all 
hump-shouldered. 

When  we  got  to  Chicago  there  was  just  time 
to  send  our  grips  to  a  hotel  Old  Man  Sherwood 
recommended  as  swell,  but  reasonable,  and  pile 
into  a  couple  of  taxicabs.  Joe  Parker,  who  won 
all  the  money  in  the  poker  game  coming  over, 
thought  a  street  car  was  plenty  good  enough; 
but  the  rest  of  us  felt  we  might  as  well  do  the 
thing  right  while  we  were  at  it. 

' 'We  don't  want  Dudley  to  be  ashamed  of  his 
friends,"  says  Old  Man  Sherwood,  "and  we 
can  Dutch-treat  the  ride,  so't  nobody  will  be 
hurt." 

"No  use  in  throwing  money  away,"  says  Joe. 
"However,  I'm  with  the  gang.  Let  7er  roll!" 

We  reached  the  park  just  in  time  to  see  the 
beginning  of  the  game,  and  there  was  such  a 
crowd  that  we  couldn't  get  anywhere  near  the 
visitors'  bench.  This  was  an  awful  disappoint 
ment,  because  we'd  planned  to  be  where  Dudley 
could  chat  with  us  when  he  wasn't  working. 
Instead  of  that  we  had  to  sit  where  we  couldn't 
even  see  the  players  on  the  bench.  The  next 
disappointment  came  when  the  Orphans  took 
the  field  behind  a  pitcher  that  we  had  never 
seen  before — a  big  left-hander. 

"Dudley's  skipped  his  turn,"  says  Jamieson; 
"but  they'll  surely  pitch  him  to-morrow.  We'll 
just  have  to  wait — that's  all." 

Well,  we  made  the  best  of  it,  and  rooted  our 
heads  off  for  the  Orphans.  There  were  only 

[155] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


nine  of  us,  but  what  we  lacked  in  numbers  we 
tried  to  make  up  in  noise  and  enthusiasm.  The 
Chicago  fans  who  sat  near  us  got  sore  and 
bawled  us  out — especially  when  the  Cubs  began 
to  score  their  runs;  but  we  didn't  quit.  We 
yelled  just  as  loud  when  we  were  four  runs  be 
hind  as  we  did  when  the  score  was  tied.  When 
the  game  was  over  Jamieson  fought  his  way 
down  the  aisle,  hoping  to  get  a  chance  to  speak 
with  Dudley ;  but  he  missed  him. 

"It's  all  right,  though,"  says  he  when  he 
came  back  to  us.  "It's  all  right.  I  found  out 
what  hotel  they're  stopping  at,  and  we'll  drop 
in  there  after  dinner  and  spend  the  evening 
with  Dudley — take  him  to  a  show,  or  some 
thing." 

"Maybe  he'll  take  us  to  a  show,"  says  Joe 
Parker.  "He  ought  to  when  we've  come  all 
this  way  just  to  see  him." 

We  had  dinner  and  slicked  ourselves  up  a 
bit,  and  then  started  out  to  find  Dudley.  The 
clerk  behind  the  desk  said  that  he  was  in  the 
dining-room,  and  did  we  want  to  send  in  our 
cards? 

"Let's  not  do  that,"  says  Old  Man  Sher 
wood.  "Let's  sit  down  outside  the  dining-room 
and  let  him  bump  into  us  when  he  comes  out. 
Surprise  him— that's  the  stuff!  Wait  till  he 
gets  a  flash  at  this  bunch — he'll  keel  right  over 
and  yell!" 

"Good  idea!"  says  Jamieson.  "We'll  sur 
prise  him!" 

Well,  we  got  some  chairs  and  lined  up  just 
[156] 


I   O    U 

outside  the  door,  where  any  one  coming  from 
the  dining-room  would  almost  have  to  walk 
over  us.  Then  everybody  lit  a  cigar  and  waited. 
Pretty  soon  a  crowd  of  young  fellows  came  out, 
laughing  and  chatting;  and  the  chattiest  one  in 
the  bunch  was  Dudley,  the  bell  cow  of  the  herd ! 

He  was  just  as  slim  and  handsome  as  ever— 
maybe  a  little  better  dressed  than  when  we  had 
seen  him  last ;  but  he  was  the  same  old  "boy,  and 
as  much  at  home  in  a  five-dollar-a-day  hotel  as 
if  he'd  been  born  in  one.  He  had  the  same 
old  tricks  too ;  we  could  see  that.  He  was  tell 
ing  a  funny  story  to  a  short,  black-haired  fel 
low  that  we  found  out  afterwards  was  Potts, 
the  outfielder,  and  his  arm  was  laid  along 
Potts'  shoulders  in  a  way  that  I  remembered. 
It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from  jumping  up 
and  grabbing  him ! 

We  sat  perfectly  still  and  waited  for  him  to 
see  us  and  be  surprised;  but  he  sailed  by  the 
entire  Brownsville  delegation  without  knowing 
it  was  there — breezed  along  so  close  that  we 
could  have  touched  him,  and  went  on  out  into 
the  lobby,  leaving  us  feeling  like  a  lot  of  parlour 
ornaments. 

"He  never  saw  us!"  says  Old  Man  Sher 
wood.  "Is  the  boy  blind,  or  what?" 

I  couldn't  wait  any  longer,  and  I  was  the 
first  man  to  reach  Dudley.  He  was  standing 
by  the  street  door,  pulling  on  his  gloves,  and 
chatting  with  Potts.  He  looked  at  me  when  I 
came  running  up,  with  my  hand  out — just 
looked  at  me,  that  was  all ;  and  there  wasn't  any 

[157] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


more  light  of  welcome  in  his  eye  than  you'll 
discover  in  the  eye  of  a  dried  herring.  That 
was  what  took  all  the  tuck  out  of  me — his  per 
fectly  blank,  expressionless  stare !  It  paralysed 
my  tongue  too.  I  couldn't  think  of  a  thing  to 
say  but  "Hello  there!" 

"Hello  yourself!"  says  Dudley,  giving  me 
the  up  and  down.  "You've  got  the  advantage 
of  me,  sir.  "What's  the  name,  please?" 

Well,  sir,  if  he  had  hit  me  in  the  face  it 
wouldn't  have  jarred  me  any  more.  While  I 
was  trying  to  get  my  wits  to  working  and  my 
mouth  open,  up  came  the  rest  of  the  boys. 

"Howdy,  Dud!"  says  Jamieson.  "How's 
the  ole  boy?" 

"Never  better,  thanks!"  says  Dudley,  cool  as 
an  icicle.  "But  what's  the  idea  of  the  mob 
scene?  Haven't  you  got  me  mixed  up  with 
somebody  else — or  is  this  a  joke?" 

"Joke!"  says  Jamieson.    "Don't  you  know 


"Joke!"  says  Old  Man  Sherwood.  "When 
we  came  all  the  way  from  Brownsville  just  to 
see  you?  Joke?" 

"Brownsville?"  says  Dudley,  rubbing  his 
chin.  "Brownsville.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  must  be 
mistaken.  I  never  heard  of  the  place  in  my 
life." 

That  was  a  knockout  for  fair;  it  landed  on 
every  man  in  our  party. 

"Never  heard  of  it!"  says  Harley  Freeman. 
"Say,  didn't  you  pitch  for  our  club  last  fall, 

and " 

[158] 


I   O   U 

Dudley  shook  his  head. 

"Not  me,"  says  he.  "Must  have  been  some 
one  that  looked  like  me." 

"And  you  don't  remember  us?"  About  six 
of  the  boys  spoke  at  once. 

'  *  How  can  I  remember  you  when  I  never  saw 
you  before!"  says  he. 

Then  he  turned  to  his  new  friend. 

"I  don't  know  what  this  is  all  about,  Pottsey ; 
but  if  we  want  to  catch  the  first  act  of  that 
show  we  '11  have  to  be  moving.  These  birds  are 
playing  hooky  from  their  keeper;  let's  go  be 
fore  they  get  violent." 

Before  anybody  could  lift  a  finger,  he  was 
through  the  doorway  and  out  on  the  street,  with 
Potts  after  him.  We  stood  and  looked  at  each 
other,  with  our  mouths  open.  I  suppose  there 
was  a  funny  side  to  it,  but  it  didn't  appeal  to 
us  just  then. 

"Well,  I'm  damned!"  says  Old  Man  Sher 
wood.  "Come  on,  boys!  Let's  be  gettin'  out 
of  here.  I  got  to  have  room  to  say  what's  in 
my  mind!" 

We  made  our  escape  from  the  place  somehow 
and  stood  on  the  street  corner,  blinking  at  the 
electric  lights.  Some  of  the  boys  began  to  rave 
and  tell  what  they'd  do  to  Dudley  if  they  ever 
met  him  in  a  dark  alley,  but  all  the  talk  was 
knocked  clean  out  of  my  system.  I  was  sick — 
downright  sick.  I'd  wasted  a  lot  of  friendly 
feelings  on  a  rat,  and  it  was  a  shock  to  find  out 
how  much  rat  he  was. 

"Listen!"  says  Joe  Parker  when  the  con- 
[159] 


SCOKE    BY   INNINGS 


versation  calmed  down  a  bit.  "I  bet  I  know 
what  ailed  him.  I  kept  kind  of  in  the  back 
ground,  but  I  think  he  got  a  flash  at  me  when 
he  came  out  of  the  dining-room.  That's  why 
he  said  he  didn't  know  us." 

"A  flash  at  you?  Why,  what's  he  got  against 
you,  Joe?" 

" Nothing,"  says  Parker,  taking  out  his 
pocketbook;  "I've  got  something  against  him. 
A  little  matter  of  fifty  bones.  I  guess  he 
thought  I  'd  come  to  collect  it.  ...  Here 's  his 
I  0  U.  Want  to  see  it?" 

"Fifty  dollars!"  says  Eddie  McManus. 
"Huh!  You're  only  a  piker!  I  got  one  of 
them  things  in  my  pocket  that  calls  for  a 
hundred ! ' ' 

"Oh,  well,"  says  Jamieson;  "since  we're  all 
going  to  tell  secrets,  he  got  into  me  for  a  hun 
dred  and  fifty." 

"My  soul!"  says  Old  Man  Sherwood,  be 
ginning  to  laugh.  "And  me  thinking  I  was  the 
only  fool  in  the  bunch!  .  .  .  Did  he  give  you 
that  hard  luck  story  'bout  his  father  bein'  in 
the  hospital  at  Syracuse?" 

"It  was  Denver  when  he  sung  the  song  to 
me,"  says  I. 

"Appendicitis,  wasn't  it?"  asks  Dutch  Coff- 
man.  "I  paid  for  one  of  them  operations  my 
self.  He  put  his  arm  round  my  neck  and  told 
me  I  was  a  good  guy.  I  fell.  Two  hundred 
fish  it  cost  me.  Oh,  what  a  bunch  of  suckers!" 

I  guess  we  should  have  stayed  on  that  cor 
ner  all  night,  comparing  notes,  if  a  policeman 

[160] 


I   O   U 

hadn't  invited  us  to  move  on  and  not  block  the 
traffic.  We  went  back  to  our  hotel  and  held  a 
council  of  war.  Every  man  who  had  an  I  0  U 
dug  it  up  and  spread  it  on  the  table.  There 
were  eight  of  'em — he  had  somehow  managed 
to  overlook  Frank  Sperlock — eight  of  'em,  all 
dated  and  signed  with  curlicues  and  flourishes — 
Dudley  W.  Fowler.  In  all,  they  footed  up  to 
nine  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars. 

Seven  of  us  had  kept  quiet  on  account  of  lik 
ing  the  boy  and  believing  that  he  would  make 
good  some  day.  Joe  Parker  said  that  was  his 
notion,  too,  but  I'll  always  believe  he  kept  his 
mouth  shut  because  he  thought  he  was  the  only 
one  stung  and  didn't  want  to  own  up  to  it. 

Dudley  had  what  some  women  have  got — the 
faculty  of  making  each  victim  believe  himself 
the  only  friend  that  really  counted.  Speaking 
for  myself  I  just  happened  to  have  that  I  0  U 
in  my  pocketbook;  I  wasn't  on  a  collecting  tour. 
Of  course  if  he  had  offered  to  come  across  I 
wouldn't  have  stopped  him,  but  I  never  would 
have  broached  the  subject.  I  can't  answer  for 
the  others. 

"Now,  then,"  says  Jamieson,  scooping  the 
I  0  U's  all  up  in  a  pile,  "the  question  before 
the  house  is  this :  What  are  we  going  to  do  with 
this  jack  pot?  What's  the  sense  of  the  meet 
ing?" 

Joe  Parker  was  for  taking  the  evidence  back 
to  Dudley's  hotel  and  raising  a  row. 

"Maybe  his  boss  will  do  something  about  it," 
says  Joe. 

[161] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


4 'And  we'd  look  like  a  lot  of  cheap  sports," 
says  Dutch  Coffman.  "  Joe,  you're  in  this  plot 
on  a  short  ante;  so  keep  quiet.  Personally  I've 
kissed  my  two  hundred  good-bye  already.  It 
was  only  part  of  the  dough  I  won  on  his  games 
last  fall;  so  I'm  nothing  out  by  knowing  him. 
"We're  all  in  the  same  boat,  and  it's  no  use  to 
squeal;  but  darned  if  I  don't  hate  to  let  Dudley 
get  away  with  the  raw  deal  he  handed  us  to 
night!  I'd  like  to  go  back  at  him  somehow. 
Any  suggestion  for  the  good  of  the  order?" 

Well,  there  were  plenty  of  'em,  but  mostly 
leaning  toward  personal  violence.  That 
wouldn't  do.  We  gabbed  for  an  hour  or  more, 
and  finally  Jamieson  said  if  we'd  leave  it  to 
him  he'd  find  a  way  to  make  Dudley  regret  his 
loss  of  memory. 

"With  the  permission  of  the  gang,"  says  he, 
"I'll  take  possession  of  these  10  U's.  Under 
stand  me — you  won't  recover  a  nickel  of  'em. 
You'll  have  to  be  satisfied  with  getting  Dud 
ley's  angora.  .  .  .  No;  I  won't  answer  any 
questions,  but  we'd  better  reserve  a  front  box 
at  the  ball  park  to-morrow." 

"Seeing  that  we're  turning  the  assets  over 
to  you,"  says  Parker,  always  looking  for  some 
thing  soft,  "you  might  buy  a  drink." 

"I'll  do  that  little  thing,"  says  Jamieson 
"and  I'll  also  give  you  a  toast:  Friend  Dudley 
—here 's  hoping  they  pitch  him  to-morrow ! ' ' 

Our  hope  came  true.  The  box  we  rented  for 
the  occasion  was  over  close  to  the  Chicago  bench, 

[162] 


I   O   U 

but  this  wasn't  the  reason  we  didn't  cheer  when 
the  umpire  announced  that  Fowler  would  pitch 
for  the  Orphans.  We  were  a  little  bit  worried 
about  Jamieson.  He  had  left  the  hotel  imme 
diately  after  breakfast  and  we  hadn't  seen  him 
since.  The  Chicago  fans  didn't  cheer  the  an 
nouncement,  because  they  were  nervous  about 
this  new  phenomenon  and  his  unbroken  string 
of  victories.  We  overheard  some  talk  in  the 
box  next  to  us. 

"Who?  Fowler?  Say,  if  this  kid  has  got  a 
goat  John  McGraw  couldn't  locate  it!  You 
know  what  that  means.  .  .  .  Yep — cool  as  a 
cucumber?  .  .  .  Another  Alexander,  sure! 
.  .  .  Impossible  to  rattle  him." 

I  half  suspected  that  something  might  hap 
pen  before  the  game  started;  but  I  was  wrong 
and  there  was  no  sign  of  Jamieson. 

Dudley  opened  up  on  the  Cubs  with  a  lovely 
assortment  of  curves,  and  for  two  innings  he 
had  them  eating  out  of  his  hand;  they  didn't 
get  anything  that  looked  like  a  hit. 

"He'll  make  it  ten  straight!  You  listen  to 
me!"  says  the  man  in  the  next  box.  "How 
about  that  control,  hey?  Steady  as  clockwork! 
Oh,  he's  a  sweet  pitcher!" 

Dudley  came  to  bat  in  the  third  inning  and 
there  was  a  faint  ripple  of  applause  in  the 
stands — White  Sox  rooters,  maybe,  or  visitors, 
like  ourselves.  Just  as  he  stepped  up  to  the 
pan  and  knocked  the  dirt  off  his  spikes  an  at 
tendant  in  uniform  ducked  round  the  corner  of 
the  Chicago  bench  and  started  for  the  plate. 

[163] 


SCOKE   BY   INNINGS 


He  was  carrying  a  package  under  his  arm — 
something  big  and  flat  and  square,  done  up 
in  paper  and  tied  with  a  red  ribbon.  The 
attendant  handed  the  package  to  the  umpire, 
pointed  at  Dudley,  and  ran  back  toward  the 
stand. 

All  at  once  the  Chicago  infielders  flocked  to 
the  plate,  the  rest  of  the  Cub  players  boiled  up 
out  of  the  pit,  and  the  Orphans  left  their  bench 
and  gathered  round  close. 

''Hello!"  says  the  man  in  the  next  box. 
"They're  going  to  present  Fowler  with  some 
thing.  .  .  .  Must  have  friends  here  to-day. 
Old-home-town  stuff — what?  Ball  players  are 
just  like  kids,  ain't  they?  See  'em  all  trying 
to  horn  in  on  it!" 

The  umpire  took  off  his  mask  and  cap  and 
make  a  little  speech  before  he  handed  the 
package  to  Dudley,  who  didn't  seem  to  know 
what  to  do  with  it.  A  few  people  began  to 
cheer. 

"Open  it!    Open  it!" 

One  man  yelled  that,  away  up  in  the  back  of 
the  stand ;  and  right  there  I  stopped  breathing, 
for  I  knew  the  voice.  It  was  Jamieson's.  The 
crowd  took  it  up: 

"Open  it!    Open  it!" 

Dudley  hesitated  for  a  second;  then  he 
stripped  off  the  paper  and  held  the  thing  up 
in  front  of  him.  From  where  I  sat  it  looked 
like  a  picture  in  a  frame — but  I  knew  it  wasn't 
any  lithograph  that  was  under  the  glass.  The 
other  players  crowded  in  close,  with  their  heads 

[1641 


I   O   U 

together ;  there  was  a  puzzled  silence  that  lasted 
maybe  a  couple  of  seconds,  but  seemed  longer— 
and  then  a  whoop  went  up  from  the  Chicago 
boys.  They  threw  their  caps  in  the  air,  and 
hugged  one  another,  and  laid  down  on  the  grass 
and  rolled  every  which  way,  like  lunatics.  Even 
the  sour  old  umpire  had  to  smile. 

Dudley  couldn't  see  the  joke  at  all.  He 
slammed  his  present  on  the  ground  and  would 
have  jumped  on  it  if  one  of  the  Cubs  hadn't 
snatched  it  just  in  time  and  ran  with  it  to  the 
grand  stand,  with  Dudley  after  him.  The 
Chicago  player  tossed  it  up  into  the  crowd, 
where  Dudley  couldn't  follow  it;  and  then  the 
fun  began.  About  this  time  Jamieson  dropped 
into  the  box,  sweating  a  little,  but  otherwise 
calm  and  cool. 

"I  guess  I'm  a  poor  stage  manager!"  says 
he. 

"For  pity's  sake!"  says  Dutch  Coffman. 
"What  is  it?  What  did  they  hand  to 
Dudley?" 

"A  Brownsville  souvenir,  under  glass,"  says 
Jamieson.  "Eight  little  I  0  U's  in  a  frame, 
with  the  motto  'Should  auld  acquaintance  be 
forgot  ? '  I  tipped  some  of  the  lads  on  the  Chi 
cago  Club  that  Dudley's  present  would  be 
worth  seeing,  but  I  wasn't  counting  on  letting 
the  whole  crowd  in  on  the  joke.  They're  get 
ting  it,  though." 

Yes;  they  were  getting  it.  The  Brownsville 
souvenir  was  travelling  from  row  to  row  creat 
ing  a  riot  as  it  went.  I  never  saw  people  laugh 

[165] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


so  hard  in  my  life.     They  nearly  went  into 
convulsions. 

It  must  have  been  five  minutes  before  the 
game  was  resumed,  and  Dudley  had  to  stand 
there  at  the  plate  and  wait.  He  took  three  wild 
swings  at  three  bad  ones  and  ran  for  shelter; 
but  there  wasn't  any  such  thing  as  getting  away 
from  the  advertising  that  the  Brownsville 
souvenir  was  giving  him.  It  was  priming  the 
crowd  for  his  next  appearance  in  the  pitcher's 
box. 

I  don't  really  need  to  tell  you  the  rest.  You 
can  guess  that  when  Dudley  walked  out  into 
the  middle  of  the  diamond  a  red-neck  fan,  with 
a  voice  like  a  foghorn,  stood  up  and  made  a 
megaphone  of  his  hands  and  asked  him  why  he 
didn't  pay  his  debts.  You  can  guess  that  when 
Dudley  began  his  graceful  wind-up  about  a 
thousand  people  were  struck  with  the  same  idea 
all  at  once,  and  started  a  sort  of  chant,  taking 
the  time  of  it  from  his  motions — so : 

"I!  ...  Oh!   ...  You!" 

That  was  what  found  his  goat  any  set  it 
bleating  and  running  in  circles.  You've  seen 
a  player  change  step  to  fool  the  fans  when  they 
were  whistling  the  Rogues'  March  at  him? 
Well,  Dudley  tried  to  hurry  his  wind-up  to 
throw  the  chanters  out  of  time,  and  succeeded 
in  throwing  away  his  control,  instead.  They 
I  0  U'd  him  into  such  a  state  of  mind  that  he 
couldn't  have  thrown  a  basbeall  over  a  freight 
car,  broadside  on.  He  filled  the  bases,  walked 

[166] 


I   O   U 

in  one  run,  and  then  stuck  a  groover  where  Zim 
merman  could  find  it — and  away  went  the  old 
ball  game. 

The  manager  yanked  him  out  of  the  box ;  and 
as  he  started  for  the  bench,  with  his  chin  on 
his  chest,  about  fifteen  thousand  people  stood 
up  and  gave  it  to  him  all  together : 

"I!  ...  Oh!  ...  You!  Oh,  you!  Oh, 
you!  Oh-h-h,  you!" 

1 1  That 's  his  finish ! ' '  says  the  man  in  the  next 
box.  "Yes;  you  can  kiss  him  good-bye  right 
now.  They've  found  out  where  he  stables  his 
goat,  and  this  I  0  U  stuff  will  be  all  over  the 
league  in  no  time.  He  '11  never  hear  the  last  of 
it.  ...  Lord,  what  a  dog's  trick!  I  wonder 
who  pulled  it  on  him?" 

If  the  man  bothers  to  read  this  yarn  he  will 
at  least  find  out  that  there  was  provocation. 
He  won't  need  to  read  it  to  find  out  that  he 
was  right  about  one  thing:  The  fans  and  the 
players  on  the  other  clubs  simply  I  0  U'd  Dud 
ley  out  of  the  Big  League — I  0  U'd  him  out 
of  baseball. 

It  was  coming  to  him,  of  course;  but  there 
are  times  when  I  feel  ashamed  of  the  part  I 
had  in  it — times  when  I  wish  Jamieson  hadn't 
been  so  hard  on  the  boy.  Dudley  was  no  good, 
and  all  that;  but — well,  I'm  just  soft  enough  to 
be  sorry. 


[167] 


THE  BONE  DOCTOR 


CHRISTY  MATHEWSON  can  afford  to 
be  modest,  whether  he  feels  like  it  or 
not,  because  it's  a  cinch  that  he'll  get 
plenty  of  credit  and  public  recognition 
anyway;  but  the  party  who  makes  me  tired  is 
the  swelled-up  bush  pitcher  who  hasn't  done 
anything  yet  and  ain't  sure  that  he  can,  but  is 
proud  of  it  just  the  same.     It  has  been  my 
experience  that  the  bigger  a  man  is,  the  less 
he  thinks  about  his  own  importance  and  the 
less  liable  he  is  to  get  the  swelled  head.    It's 
the  little  fellow  who  is  likely  to  run  away  with 
the  notion  that  he  is  there  with  a  million,  as 
we  say.     This  goes  for  a  lot  of  things  besides 
baseball  too. 

It  ain't  any  trouble  for  me  to  be  modest.  I 
know  my  strong  points  and  I  know  my  weak 
ones,  too,  even  if  I  don't  admit  'em  in  the 
clubhouse  after  we  lose  a  tight  game.  Some 
shortstops  are  better  than  I  am  and  a  lot  more 
are  worse.  I  never  broke  up  any  leagues  with 
my  hitting  or  stole  the  shoes  off  Jimmy 
Archer's  feet,  but  the  boss  keeps  on  mailing 
me  my  contract  every  year — and  he  ought  to 
know. 

[168] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


I  don't  make  any  claim  for  myself,  except 
that  I'm  always  trying.  I  go  after  everything 
that  comes  down  my  side  of  the  diamond, 
whether  I  think  I  can  handle  it  or  not.  You'd 
be  surprised  to  see  how  many  of  those  tough 
chances  I  get  away  with,  as  the  fellow  said  who 
tried  to  kiss  every  pretty  girl  he  met. 

But  about  Jones :  he  got  in  bad  with  me  from 
the  jump.  Big  leagues  know  pretty  much  what 
is  going  on  in  the  International,  the  American 
Association  and  the  Coast  League,  because  it 
is  only  a  step  from  those  organisations  to  the 
majors;  but  the  bird  with  the  Class  D  League 
reputation  has  no  license  to  break  into  fast 
company  wearing  his  tail  in  the  air.  A  minor- 
league  record  is  a  poor  thing  to  pull  on  real 
ball  players.  They  have  to  be  shown,  and  some 
times  they  don't  believe  it  even  then. 

The  first  time  I  got  a  look  at  Jones  was 
down  in  Texas,  where  we  do  our  spring  train 
ing.  I  was  sitting  on  a  bench  outside  the  hotel 
with  old  Murphy.  Murph  used  to  be  the  best 
catcher  in  the  National  League,  but  he's  so  fat 
now  that  all  he  can  do  is  waddle,  and  he  coaches 
the  young  pitchers.  None  of  Murph 's  fat  is 
above  his  shoulders,  though,  and  he  can  get 
more  out  of  a  kid  pitcher  than  anybody  would 
think  was  there.  Whenever  the  boss  gets 
chased  off  the  field  for  climbing  an  umpire's 
family  tree  Murph  takes  charge  of  the  team, 
and  he  can  think  faster  than  any  fat  man  I 
ever  saw. 

The  regulars  had  just  got  into  town  and  we 
[169] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


hadn't  done  any  real  work  yet  or  seen  any  of 
the  new  stock.  While  we  were  sitting  there, 
talking  scandal  and  chewing  over  the  winter's 
news,  along  came  a  big,  good-looking  chap 
dressed  in  a  gambler's  plaid  that  you  could 
play  checkers  on,  and  carrying  a  cane.  He  was 
all  diked  up  with  a  lot  of  cheap  jewelry,  and 
he  looked  like  a  cross  between  a  small-time 
vaudeville  actor  and  a  hick  hotel  clerk.  You 
could  tell  right  away  that  he'd  never  sit  up 
nights  hating  himself. 

"Hello,  leaf  lard!"  says  he  to  Murph,  and 
passed  on. 

"Who's  the  fresh  party?"  says  I. 

"Oh,  him?"  says  Murph,  kind  of  laughing. 
"That's  a  recruit  pitcher.  He'll  stiffen  up  our 
heaving  staff  quite  a  considerable." 

"Huh!    Who  says  so?" 

"Why,  he  does.  His  name  is  Jones  and  he 
hails  from  some  little  town  in  Ohio.  He  tells 
me  he  was  a  curly  wolf  in  the  K.  K.  B.  League 
last  season." 

I  said  what  I  thought  about  Jones  and  the 
K.  K.  B.  League;  and  I  didn't  put  the  soft 
pedal  on,  either.  There  are  people  who  rub  me 
the  wrong  way  on  sight  and  Jones  is  one  of  'em. 

"Ye-es,"  says  Murph;  "he's  all  of  that  and 
then  some.  You  stick  here  a  minute,  Jim,  and 
I'll  go  get  him.  He'll  hand  you  a-many  a 
laugh. ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  Jones,  nodding  kind  of  care 
less  when  he  was  introduced.  "Jim  Garrett, 
hey?  Garrett?  Seems  to  me  I've  heard  the 

[170] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


name.     Let's  see;  you're  an  outfielder,  ain't 
you?" 

I've  seen  bushers  licked  for  a  lot  less  than 
that;  and  I  would  have  gone  back  at  Jones 
strong,  only  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  to 
say.  I'm  not  very  handy  with  that  quick 
repartee  stuff. 

"Jones,  here,"  says  Murph,  helping  the  play 
along,  "had  a  pretty  good  season  last  year." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know's  I'd  say  good,"  says 
Jones,  shooting  his  cuffs  down  over  his  fingers. 
"I  worked  in  forty  games  and  they  beat  me 
five  times;  but  the  team  laid  down  behind  me. 
Pitcher  can't  do  it  all,  you  know." 

"Of  course  not,"  says  Murph,  stepping  on 
my  toe. 

"With  decent  support,"  says  Jones,  "I 
should  have  gone  through  the  season  with  a 
clean  record." 

"Tough  luck!"  says  I,  meaning  to  be 
sarcastic. 

"Yeh,"  says  Jones,  not  getting  me  at  all. 
"Oh,  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  kick.  It  might 
have  been  worse.  I  got  the  season's  strike-out 
record — eighteen  men  in  nine  innings — pitched 
one  no-hit  game,  was  lucked  out  of  another  by 
a  scratch  single,  and  put  over  nine  shut-outs. 
With  a  regular  team  behind  me  I  might  have 
hung  up  something  for  'em  to  shoot  at  for  years 
to  come." 

"Uh-huh,"  I  says— "in  the  Class  D 
Leagues." 

Even  that  didn't  fetch  him. 
[171] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  Jones.  "Base 
ball's  the  same  wherever  you  find  it — the  same 
situations;  the  same  plays.  There  ain't  such 
an  awful  difference  between  the  major  leagues 
and  the  minors.  Little  more  speed — that's 
about  all." 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "a  little  more  speed,  a  little 
more  brains,  and  a  few  other  things  like  that." 

"They  play  brainy  ball  in  the  K.  K.  B.," 
says  he.  "They  pull  all  that  inside  stuff  that 
you  read  about  in  the  magazines.  When  it 
comes  down  to  hitting  there's  mighty  little  dif 
ference.  I  don't  know  but  what  we  had  more 
.300  batters  last  season  than  there  was  in  the 
National." 

"But  look  what  they  was  hitting  against!" 
I  thought  that  one  would  set  him  back  on  his 
heels,  but  it  didn't.  He  went  right  along. 

"Batters  are  pretty  much  the  same  anywhere 
you  find  'em,"  says  he.  "They  either  hit  you 
or  they  don't.  You  let  me  get  one  of  'em  in 
the  hole  and  I  don't  care  how  good  he  is.  He 
should  worry,  not  me !  A  whole  lot  is  in  hav 
ing  confidence." 

"Yes — confidence,  control,  a  change  of  pace, 
and  a  few  more  trifles,"  says  I. 

"I'm  there  with  all  that  stuff— ain't  I, 
Murph?"  asks  Jones. 

"Well,"  says  the  old  boy,  cautiouslike, 
"you're  certainly  there  with  the  confidence!" 

"That's  half  the  battle.  Lots  of  ball  teams 
may  be  able  to  lick  me,  but  you  bet  none  of 
'em  are  going  to  scare  me.  Well,  I'll  see  you 
[172]  i 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


later.  I  got  a  date  to  play  Kelly  pool  with 
the  newspaper  boys.  I'm  giving  'em  some  good 
stuff.  Glad  I  met  you,  Garrett.  So  long!" 
He  went  inside  the  hotel,  whistling. 

"What  do  you  think  of  him,  Jim?"  asks 
Murph. 

I  guess  I  was  explicit  enough.  I  may  have 
overlooked  a  little  language  here  and  there,  but 
I  don't  believe  I  did.  Murph  grinned. 

"The  joke  of  it  is,"  says  he,  "that  this  bird 
has  really  got  something  in  him  besides  conceit. 
He 's  got  an  arm  there  like  braided  rawhide  and 
he's  the  makings  of  a  swell  pitcher." 

"Don't  swell  him  up  no  more  than  he  is 
now,"  says  I,  "or  he'll  bust  on  your  hands." 

"Well,"  says  Murph,  "we've  got  to  get  him 
over  that.  We've  got  to  cure  him.  I'm  hoping 
that  the  regulars  will  be  able  to  take  him  down 
a  peg  or  two." 

"Leave  it  to  us,"  I  says.  "I'm  going  to 
pass  the  word  to  the  gang." 


ii 


It  wasn't  any  time  at  all  before  everybody 
at  the  camp  had  Jonesy's  number.  Some 
people  are  puffed  up  in  a  quiet  sort  of  way  and 
take  it  out  in  thinking  about  how  good  they  are. 
The  soft  pedal  was  left  out  of  Jones's  make-up 
entirely.  He  made  more  noise  about  himself 
than  a  minstrel  band.  The  boys  wrere  pretty 
rough  with  him  in  a  conversational  way,  and 
some  of  the  cracks  they  made  at  Jones  would 

[173] 


SCOBE   BY   INNINGS 


have  knocked  the  paint  off  a  cigar-store  Indian ; 
but,  bless  you,  the  fellow  had  a  rind  like  a 
rhinoceros!  Shooting  at  him  with  anything 
less  than  a  sixteen-inch  gun  was  simply  wasting 
ammunition.  He  was  armour-plated  with  con 
ceit  from  end  to  end. 

Jones  had  chances  to  make  himself  popular 
with  the  gang,  but  he  booted  every  one  of  'em.v 
He  wasn't  satisfied  with  doing  a  good  thing  and 
leaving  it  there  for  folks  to  look  at  and  admire; 
he  had  to  turn  the  spotlight  on  it  and  start  a 
ballyhoo.  He  wouldn't  wait  for  people  to  give 
him  credit — he  took  it. 

For  instance,  one  night  we  got  to  talking 
about  fights  and  fighters,  and  Jones  horned  into 
the  discussion.  He  was  in  every  gab-fest  that 
started,  right  up  to  the  ears.  Jones  began 
three-cheering  himself  as  a  fighter.  To  hear 
him  tell  it,  he  was  the  White  Hope  of  the  dia 
mond — nothing  less. 

Joe  Duffy  was  sitting  there,  with  his  hat 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  taking  it  all  in.  Joe 
is  our  prize  scrapper.  He's  licked  nearly  all 
the  fighters  in  the  league.  When  he  was  a  kid 
he  started  out  to  be  the  middleweight  champion, 
but  something  delayed  him.  If  his  war  record 
is  ever  compiled  there  will  be  a  string  of  knock 
outs  on  it  from  here  to  Timbuktu,  mostly  cab 
drivers  and  all-night  waiters.  The  ball  players 
have  got  so  they  won't  fight  with  Joe  any  more. 
He  hits  too  hard. 

"Well,"  says  Jones,  "this  big  lumberjack 
came  at  me  with  his  head  down,  roaring  like 

[174] 


THE   BONE    DOCTOR 


a  bull  and  swinging  both  hands.  I  can  always 
take  care  of  a  slugger.  I  feinted  a  couple  of 
times,  straightened  him  up  and  then  nailed  him 
on  the  chin  with  a  right  cross.  They  thought 
he  never  was  going  to  come  to  again." 

There  was  considerable  silence  after  that  and 
then  Joe  Duffy  took  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth. 

"Where  do  you  bury  your  dead?"  says  he. 

It  wasn't  so  much  what  he  said  as  the  way 
he  said  it.  A  man  who  couldn't  understand 
English  would  have  caught  the  insult  in  every 
word.  Jones  looked  at  Duffy  and  grinned. 

"The  same  place  you  bury  yours,  old  top," 
says  he. 

* '  Huh ! ' '  sneers  Joe.  *  *  You  're  a  great  fighter 
—with  your  mouth." 

"Una — well,"  says  Jones,  "maybe  I  can 
fight  some  with  my  hands  too.  It's  no  trouble 
to  show  goods." 

He'd  said  enough.  The  preliminaries  were 
arranged  on  the  spot.  Duffy  had  some  five- 
ounce  gloves  in  his  trunk,  and  the  word  was 
quietly  passed  round  for  the  gang  to  meet  in 
the  big  bare  sample  room  on  the  third  floor  of 
the  hotel.  Jones  picked  me  and  Murph  to  go 
in  his  corner  and  second  him.  He  didn't  seem 
the  least  bit  worried  while  he  was  taking  off 
his  things  and  getting  ready. 

"Can  this  fellow  fight  some?"  he  asks. 

Well,  we  told  him  about  Duffy. 

"You  want  to  look  out  for  that  right  hand," 
says  Murph.  "Joe  hits  like  the  kick  of  a 
mule." 

[175] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


"So  do  I,"  says  Jones. 

Stackpole,  the  outfielder,  volunteered  to  act 
as  referee  and  the  hotel  clerk  held  the  stop 
watch. 

"You  won't  need  that,"  says  Duffy  when 
he  saw  the  watch.  "This  won't  last  a  full 
round." 

Jones  was  prancing  round  the  room  on  his 
toes,  shadow  boxing  a  little.  He  heard  what 
Duffy  said. 

"You  never  can  tell,"  says  Jones.  "Any  of 
you  gentlemen  want  to  bet  on  Duffy  ? ' ' 

"Cheese!"  whispers  Murph.  "Don't  be 
foolish!" 

"All  the  same,"  says  Jones,  "I've  got  two 
hundred  beans  down  in  the  hotel  safe.  You 
can  get  aboard  at  even  money  as  long  as  the 
bank  roll  lasts." 

"I'll  take  fifty  of  it,"  says  Duffy. 

The  two  hundred  lasted  less  than  a  minute. 
Everybody  wanted  a  piece  of  it.  I  would  have 
taken  some  myself — only,  being  in  Jones' 
corner,  it  would  have  looked  bad. 

"Time!"  says  Stackpole. 

"You  can  always  take  care  of  a  slugger,  can 
you?"  says  Joe.  "Well,  look  out  for  your 
self!" 

He  came  in  with  a  rush,  timing  a  right  swing 
for  the  jaw,  and  the  fight  would  have  been  over 
but  for  one  thing — Jones'  jaw  wasn't  there. 
He  jerked  his  head  backward  without  moving 
his  feet,  which  is  a  trick  that  mighty  few  boxers 
ever  learn.  Joe  whirled  round  like  a  top  and 

[176] 


THE   BONE    DOCTOR 


before  he  could  set  again  Jones  jabbed  him  all 
the  way  across  the  room  with  a  straight  left. 
Duffy  snorted  and  rushed  and  Jones  clinched 
and  blocked. 

' '  Leggo  and  fight ! ' '  grunts  Duffy. 

"Take  your  time,"  says  Jones,  ''and  save 
your  wind.  You're  going  to  need  it." 

All  through  the  first  round  Duffy  rushed  and 
swung  his  right,  but  he  couldn't  land  it.  Jones 
never  stopped  popping  him  with  a  straight 
left. 

"What  do  you  think  you're  doing — sparring 
for  points?"  That  was  what  Joe  said  when  he 
went  to  his  corner  at  the  end  of  the  first  round. 
"Why  don't  you  come  on  and  fight?" 

Jones  only  laughed  at  him. 

"That's  a  neat  left  you've  got  there,"  says 
Murph  to  Jones;  "but  you  can't  any  more  than 
smear  him  up  a  little  with  it.  Don't  you  ever 
use  your  right  at  all,  son?" 

"I'm  saving  that  as  a  surprise,"  says  Jones. 

The  second  round  was  pretty  much  like  the 
first.  Joe  was  beginning  to  grunt  when  he 
missed  his  crazy  haymakers,  and  Jones' 
straight  left  was  plunging  in  and  out  like  a 
piston,  landing  clean  every  time,  but  not  doing 
much  damage. 

"Ten  seconds  more!"  says  the  hotel  clerk. 

' '  Oh,  well,  if  that 's  the  case—  - ' '  says  Jones ; 
and  he  quit  jabbing  and  began  to  feint.  Duffy 
dropped  his  left  shoulder  and  Jones  cut  loose 
with  a  right  cross  for  the  jaw,  the  first  he'd 
used  in  the  fight.  It  came  so  fast  that  Duffy 

[177] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


never  had  a  chance  to  duck  and  he  hit  the  floor 
with  a  bump  that  cracked  the  plastering  below. 

"Time!"  says  the  clerk. 

I'll  never  forget  the  expression  on  Duffy's 
face  as  he  sat  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  Jones. 
He  wasn't  hurt  so  much  as  he  was  dazed.  A 
knockdown  was  a  novelty  to  him. 

"Keno!"  says  Jones  to  us.  "I've  got  him 
loaded  on  my  little  wagon.  No  use  in  boxing 
with  this  bird  any  more.  From  now  on  I'll 
trade  wallops  with  him." 

And  that  is  what  he  did — only  it  wasn  't  really 
a  trade,  because  Jones  was  landing  and  Duffy 
was  missing.  Before  the  third  round  was  half 
over  even  the  men  who  had  bet  on  Duffy  were 
yelling  at  Stackpole  to  stop  the  slaughter. 
Jones  was  simply  tearing  him  to  pieces  with 
a  right  cross. 

"Be  reasonable,  old  horse,"  says  Jones  to 
Duffy  when  Duffy  was  on  the  floor  for  the 
sixth  time.  "You're  licked.  Why  don't  you 
quit?" 

But  Joe  only  cussed  him  and  climbed  up 
again. 

"I  like  your  spirit,"  says  Jones,  "but  your 
judgment  is  sort  of  mildewed.  Well,  of  course, 
if  you  will  have  it — there ! ' ' 

The  seventh  time  Duffy  didn't  get  up.  It 
was  a  clean  knockout.  He  never  so  much  as 
wiggled  an  ear  until  after  he'd  been  carried  to 
his  corner  and  propped  up  in  a  chair.  Jones 
went  over  and  patted  him  on  the  back  and  com 
plimented  him  on  his  gameness,  but  Duffy 

[178] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


didn't  know  what  it  was  all  about.  He  was 
still  groggy  and  couldn't  do  anything  but 
mumble.  It  was  the  first  time  he'd  ever  been 
knocked  out.  He  told  me  afterward  that  he 
had  an  idea  that  somebody  sneaked  up  behind 
him  and  lammed  him  with  a  ball  bat. 

You  can  imagine  how  surprised  everybody 
was.  We  had  expected  to  see  some  of  the  con 
ceit  knocked  out  of  Jones;  but  instead  of  that 
he  had  made  a  monkey  out  of  the  toughest 
fighter  in  the  league  and  put  up  a  fight  that 
would  have  been  a  credit  to  a  cracking  good 
professional.  We  all  got  round  him  and  told 
him  that  he  was  a  bear  and  a  curly  wolf  with 
long  claws. 

That  was  the  time  when  modesty  would  have 
helped  him  a  lot  with  the  boys,  but  the  chump 
puffed  up  like  a  pouter  pigeon.  He  not  only 
admitted  that  all  we  said  was  true,  but  he 
called  our  attention  to  a  few  good  points  about 
his  fighting  we  had  overlooked. 

"Kid  McCoy  used  to  slip  a  punch  with  his 
head,"  says  he,  "and  Joe  Gans  could  do  it  too. 
It  sort  of  comes  natural  to  me." 

Well,  what  can  you  do  with  a  fool  like  that? 
We  went  away  and  left  him,  still  talking  loudly 
about  himself. 

"He  sure  is  a  fighter,"  says  Stackpole;  "but 
the  dickens  of  it  is  that  he  knows  it  better 
than  we  do." 

It  was  old  Murph  who  sized  up  the  situation 
to  a  whisper. 

"Paying  Jones  a  compliment  to  his  face," 
[179] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


says  he,  "is  just  like  carrying  a  poor  little 
faded  wild  flower  into  a  conservatory!" 

ni 

Well,  it  didn't  take  us  long  to  find  out  that 
Jones  wasn't  going  to  be  a  temporary  incon 
venience,  but  a  permanent  pest.  No  matter 
what  we  thought  of  him  personally,  we  had  to 
admit  that  as  a  pitcher  he  was  almost  as  good 
as  he  thought  he  was,  and  that  meant  he'd  be 
with  us  for  the  season. 

Usually  a  bush  pitcher  who  is  trying  to  get 
a  toehold  on  a  big  league  pay  roll  is  sort  of 
scared  and  humble,  and  willing  to  take  advice 
from  anybody,  from  the  bat  boy  up  to  the  man 
ager.  "How  did  I  look  in  there  to-day?"  is 
what  they  always  ask. 

Jones  was  different.  He  told  us  how  good 
he  looked  in  there;  he  called  the  manager  by 
the  first  name;  and  he  took  it  for  granted  that 
he'd  be  with  us  when  the  season  opened.  By 
the  middle  of  March  he  was  talking  about  the 
high  old  times  he'd  have  at  Coney  Island  when 
the  club  was  playing  in  New  York. 

"I  wouldn't  worry  about  Coney  Island  if  I 
was  you,"  says  Pete  Bogan,  our  star  left 
hander.  "Coney  doesn't  open  until  the  summer 
and  by  that  time  you  may  be  in  Shreveport 
or  Great  Falls,  or  some  other  whistling  sta 
tion." 

"Think  so?"  says  Jones.  "At  any  rate,  I 
haven't  got  to  the  point  where  I'm  experiment- 

[180] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


ing  with  a  spitter.  I'm  still  satisfied  with  what 
I've  got." 

Well,  that  was  one  for  Bogan  right  over  the 
middle.  Pete's  speed  isn't  what  it  used  to  be 
and  he  had  been  trying  to  get  control  of  a 
spitter  to  use  in  emergencies. 

On  the  way  North,  playing  exhibition  games 
every  day,  Jones  laid  it  on  thick.  He  was  in  his 
element,  and  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  couldn't 
have  carried  his  uniform  roll  for  him. 

You  can  imagine  how  it  is  in  the  little  towns. 
The  sports  and  the  loafers  are  always  anxious 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  real  big  leaguers,  and 
they  meet  the  train  at  the  depot  and  hang  round 
the  hotel  afterward.  Jonesy  was  the  boy  who 
knew  what  they  expected  and  he  gave  'em  a 
treat.  He  never  failed  to  be  the  first  man  off 
the  Pullman.  He  ordered  porters  round,  shoved 
the  yokels  out  of  the  way,  and  hung  round  hotel 
lobbies,  with  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his 
vest.  To  see  him  walk  across  a  bush-league 
diamond  and  turn  up  his  nose  at  the  ram 
shackle  grandstand  you'd  have  thought  he  had 
never  seen  one  before  and  was  used  to  nothing 
but  steel  and  concrete. 

Then  the  season  opened  and  everything  that 
had  gone  before  wasn't  a  marker  to  the  way 
Jones  bloated  up  when  he  won  his  first  game. 
To  be  perfectly  fair  it  was  a  hard  battle  and 
Jones  showed  considerable  class;  but  he  raved 
about  it  as  though  nobody  had  ever  licked  a 
first-division  club  before.  He  patronised  the 
veteran  pitchers,  he  lorded  it  over  the  recruits, 

[181] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


and  lie  talked  back  to  the  manager  and  called 
him  Jerry. 

"I  guess  I  didn't  make  suckers  of  those  birds 
to-day ! ' '  says  Jones  under  the  shower  bath.  ' '  I 
had  'em  reaching  into  the  next  county  for  that 
slow  hook  and  jumping  back  from  my  fast  one. 
If  you  fellows  had  been  alive  behind  me  they 
wouldn't  have  had  but  two  scratch  singles." 

We  make  it  a  rule  never  to  quarrel  with  a 
winning  pitcher,  so  we  let  Jones  alone.  It  was 
a  waste  of  breath  to  compliment  him  or  to  knock 
him  either.  There  was  only  one  opinion  that 
counted  with  Jones,  and  that  was  his  own. 
After  he  had  won  his  third  game  Murph  had 
a  conference  with  a  few  of  us,  sitting  round  the 
hotel  lobby  in  St.  Louis. 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  discourage  talent," 
says  Murph;  "but  something  has  got  to  be  done 
or  Mrs.  Jones'  little  boy  will  explode  one  of 
these  days.  Yesterday  he  was  giving  me  the 
low-down  on  what  ails  our  catching  staff,  and 
he  thinks  we  ought  to  ship  all  our  veteran 
pitchers  to  the  Old  Soldiers'  Home.  And  he 
says  we  could  spare  a  couple  of  infielders  too." 

I  knew  what  Murph  was  driving  at.  In  Jones ' 
last  game  I  went  away  over  back  of  third  base 
and  got  two  fingers  on  a  line  drive  that  no  short 
stop  in  the  league  could  have  handled. 

"It  stands  to  reason,"  says  Murph,  "that 
this  terrible  swelling  of  the  bean  will  be  fatal 
unless  we  reduce  it  in  some  way.  What  is  the 
sense  of  the  gathering,  boys  I  How  shall  we 
apply  the  treatment?" 

[182] 


THE   BONE    DOCTOR 


Well,  we  argued  it,  but  we  couldn't  come  to 
a  conclusion  of  any  sort.  Talking  to  Jones 
wouldn't  help  matters  in  the  least.  We  had 
tried  that.  Arthur  Powers,  the  first-string 
catcher,  suggested  that  it  might  be  a  good  thing 
to  heave  in  a  few  runs  behind  him  the  next 
time  he  pitched;  but  that  was  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  We  figured  to  have  a  burglar's  chance  to 
break  into  the  first  division  that  season  and  we 
couldn't  toss  any  games  away.  Joe  Duffy  said 
that  a  licking  might  do  him  good,  but  nobody 
seemed  anxious  to  take  the  contract.  In  the 
middle  of  the  discussion  along  came  Freddy 
Bullard,  our  club  secretary,  with  a  letter  in  his 
hand. 

"Ah,  noble  athletes!"  says  he.  "Here's 
some  good  news  for  you.  The  Chamber  of 
Commerce  of  Verbena,  Ohio,  invites  us  to  come 
over  there  and  play  an  exhibition  game.  That 
fills  the  open  date  a  week  from  next  Tuesday." 

Of  course  there  was  a  general  roar  from  all 
hands.  We  get  enough  baseball  in  the  playing 
season  without  barn-storming  round  the  coun 
try  on  our  open  dates.  Asking  a  lot  of  big 
leaguers  to  play  an  exhibition  game  is  like  invit 
ing  street-car  conductors  to  go  for  a  trolley 
ride. 

"But  listen!"  says  Freddy.  "Verbena  is 
Jones'  home  town." 

"That  doesn't  boost  it  any  with  me!"  says 
Hit  Shields,  the  pitcher. 

"Yes;  but  they  say  they'll  close  all  the  stores 
and  declare  it  a  holiday,"  says  Bullard.  "They 

[183]  ' 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


want  to  see  Jones  pitch  against  their  home 
team.  They  want  to  give  us  a  banquet.  I 
suppose  they'll  present  Jones  with  a  gold  watch 
or  a  diamond  ring.  They'll  guarantee  us  a 
thousand  bucks !  It  ought  to  be  worth  while. ' ' 

"I'm  agin'  it!"  says  Bug  Bellows,  the  first- 
baseman.  "Jones  can't  hardly  keep  his  hat  on 
his  head  now.  After  these  rubes  hand  him  that 
Verbena's  favourite-son  stuff,  there  won't  be 
any  living  with  him ! ' ' 

"Eight  you  are!"  says  Joe  Duffy. 

All  of  a  sudden  Murph  began  to  laugh.  He 
laughed  until  the  tears  ran  down  his  face. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  says  I. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  says  Murph.  "I  think  I'll 
hunt  up  the  boss  and  have  a  little  chat  with 
him,  that's  all." 

He  went  away,  still  laughing,  and  he  was 
laughing  when  he  came  back. 

"Every  little  thing  is  all  right,  boys,"  says 
Murph.  '  *  The  boss  is  going  to  spare  me  enough 
ball  players  to  make  a  mess  and  we'll  fill  that 
Verbena  date." 

"It  strikes  me,"  says  Arthur  Powers,  the 
catcher,  "that  you've  got  an  awful  gall  ribbing 
up  exhibition  games  for  this  team!  Don't  we 
work  hard  enough  to  suit  you?" 

"Calm  yourself,  my  boy;  calm  yourself," 
says  Murph.  "If  you'll  promise  to  be  good 
I'll  let  you  go  along  and  see  the  fun,  but  you 
won't  do  any  work.  The  battery  will  be  Jones 
and  Murphy." 

"Why,  you  old  tub  of  lard,"  says  Powers, 
[184] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


"you  haven't  caught  a  game  since  Hughey  Jen 
nings  played  short ! ' ' 

"Even  so,"  says  Murph,  "I  may  be  good 
enough  for  Verbena ! ' ' 

Just  then  Jones  came  strolling  across  the 
lobby,  a  cane  under  his  arm,  and  pulling  on  his 
gloves  like  the  villain  in  a  melodrama. 

"Did  you  hear  the  news,  Jonesy?"  asks 
Murph.  "We're  going  to  play  an  exhibition 
game  in  your  home  town  a  week  from 
Tuesday." 

"I've  had  a  letter  from  the  Chamber  of  Com 
merce,"  says  Jones.  "I  suppose  they  won't  be 
satisfied  unless  I  pitch,  eh?" 

Then  he  went  out  into  the  street,  switching 
his  cane.  Old  Murph  looked  after  him  with  a 
grin. 

"An  exhibition  game,"  says  he,  "does  not 
count  in  the  season's  averages."  He  rolled  his 
eye  round  the  circle,  looking  at  every  one  of  us 
while  he  let  that  remark  sink  in.  "It's  just 
possible,"  says  Murph,  "that  our  friend  Jones 
has  overlooked  that  point,  eh?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you've  got  up  your 
sleeve,"  says  Joe  Duffy,  "but  I'm  going  to 
Verbena,  Ohio,  if  I  have  to  pay  my  own  car 
fare!" 


IV 

Jones  pretended  to  be  bored  at  the  idea  of 
visiting  Verbena,  but  his  stall  didn't  fool  any 
body.  We  could  all  see  that  he  was  tickled  to 
death  at  the  chance  of  showing  off  before  his 

[185] 


SCOEE   BY   INNINGS 


old  friends  and  neighbours.  While  we  were  in 
Chicago  he  touched  Freddy  Bullard  for  forty 
bucks  and  blew  himself  to  a  full-dress  suit- 
hand-me-downs,  of  course — and  one  of  those 
wrinkly,  soft-boiled  shirts  that  the  head  waiters 
are  wearing  this  season.  In  Cincinnati  he  got 
up  nerve  enough  to  give  the  suit  a  work-out  and 
wore  it  into  the  dining-room  at  the  hotel.  As 
he  passed  our  table,  all  swelled  up  and  not 
knowing  whether  to  notice  us  or  not,  we  began 
to  snap  our  fingers  and  yell : 

"Garsong!     Oh,  garsong!" 

''Waiter,  where 's  that  soup?" 

"A  little  service  here,  Emil !" 

Jones  never  turned  his  head,  but  his  ears 
went  pink  and  stayed  pink  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening. 

Mit  Shields,  who  roomed  with  him  on  the 
road,  said  that  Jones  had  been  sitting  up 
nights,  writing  a  speech  to  deliver  at  the  Ver 
bena  banquet. 

"Honest  Injun,  fellows,"  says  Mit,  "I 
emptied  the  wastebasket  and  it  was  full  of 
pages  beginning  like  this:  'Mr.  Toastmaster, 
ladies  and  gentlemen:  Unaccustomed  as  I  am 

to  public  speaking '  And  right  there  he 

broke  every  time!" 

We  went  over  to  Verbena  on  the  morning 
accommodation  train,  about  fifteen  of  us.  The 
boss  passed  it  up  and  that  left  Murph  in  charge. 
The  last  ten  miles  Jones  couldn't  sit  still  in  his 
seat.  He  was  all  over  the  car — looking  out  the 
windows,  asking  the  conductor  whether  the  train 

[186] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


was  on  time,  and  generally  behaving  himself 
like  a  kid  on  a  holiday. 

There  was  an  awful  mob  at  the  depot,  which 
was  decorated  with  flags  and  bunting,  and  we 
tumbled  down  into  the  hands  of  the  Reception 
Committee — a  flock  of  rubes  wearing  white 
satin  badges  with  gold  letters  on  'em — Jones 
Day.  The  crowd  began  to  yell : 

' '  Where  is  he  ?  Where 's  Jones  ?  Fetch  him 
out!" 

Well,  that  was  Jonesy's  cue.  He  didn't  have 
any  idea  of  getting  off  with  the  crowd;  he  was 
going  to  wait  until  there  wasn't  anybody  in  the 
spotlight  but  him.  Jones  let  'em  yell  for  a 
while  and  then  he  hopped  down  on  the  plat 
form,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  bowing  first  to  one 
side  and  then  to  the  other.  An  actor  couldn't 
have  done  it  any  better.  The  brass  band  busted 
loose,  the  crowd  cheered,  and  the  women  waved 
their  handkerchiefs.  Jones  handed  his  suitcase 
to  a  member  of  the  Reception  Committee  and 
away  we  went  for  the  carriages. 

It  was  only  three  blocks  to  the  hotel,  but 
those  Verbena  folks  did  the  job  up  in  style. 
First  went  the  brass  band,  whanging  away  for 
dear  life ;  and  behind  it  was  an  open-faced  hack 
drawn  by  four  black  horses,  with  pink  ribbons 
in  their  tails.  In  the  hack,  leaning  back  like  the 
lord  of  all  creation,  was  Jonesy,  smoking  a 
cigar  with  the  president  of  the  Verbena 
Chamber  of  Commerce  and  pretending  not  to 
notice  the  common  people  on  the  sidewalks. 

The  rest  of  us  piled  into  the  hacks  any  old 
[187] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


way.  Just  before  the  procession  started,  a 
lanky,  freckle-faced  young  fellow  eased  himself 
into  the  carriage  with  Murph,  Joe  Duffy 
and  me. 

"My  name's  Cassidy,"  says  he,  "Mike  Cas- 
sidy.  I'm  the  manager,  first  baseman  and  team 
captain  of  the  Verbena  Stars.  I  guess  I  know 
who  you  are  from  the  pictures  in  the  Guide. 
Murphy  and  Garrett  and  Joe  Duffy,  eh  ?  Oh,  I 
keep  posted  on  the  big  leaguers,  you  bet!" 

"What  kind  of  a  ball  club  have  you  got?" 
asks  Murph  after  shaking  hands  with  Cassidy. 

"It  ain't  so  rotten,"  says  Cassidy.  "The 
boys  may  not  have  all  the  fine  points,  but 
they're  fence-busters  from  away  back.  We'll 
give  you  a  battle!  Don't  worry!" 

"You're  giving  Jones  a  grand  blowout," 
says  I. 

"Huh!"  says  Cassidy.  "I'm  the  man  that 
taught  him  all  he  knows.  You  ought  to  seen 
how  raw  he  was  when  I  first  got  hold  of  him! 
He  used  to  telegraph  his  fast  ball  with  his  foot, 
and  he  couldn't  hold  a  runner  on  the  bag  to  save 
his  life !  It  took  me  the  best  part  of  one  whole 
season;  but  I  stayed  with  him  morning,  noon 
and  night  until  I  made  a  pitcher  out  of  him. 
Jones!  Huh!" 

"You  did  a  good  job,"  says  Murph. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  did  or  not,"  says 
Cassidy.  "Look  at  him  up  there  in  the  front 
hack,  pulling  the  conquering-hero  stuff  on  old 
man  Sherwood,  that  never  knew  Jones  was  on 
earth  when  he  used  to  live  here!" 

[188] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


"Well,"  says  Murph,  "a  fine  reception  like 
this  is  liable  to  swell  anybody."  And  he 
winked  at  the  rest  of  us. 

"It  oughtn't  to  make  a  man  forget  his  old 
friends,"  says  Cassidy.  "And  who's  he  got  to 
thank  for  this  whole  business?  Nobody  but 
me!  Who  was  it  looked  up  the  schedule  and 
found  that  open  date  ?  Me !  Who  tipped  it  to 
the  Chamber  of  Commerce  to  invite  the  club 
over  to  Verbena?  Me!  I'm  responsible  for 
the  entire  shooting  match ;  and  now  what  gets 
my  goat  is  that  Jonesy  don't  hardly  know  me 
any  more.  When  he  was  climbing  into  the  hack 
I  busted  through  the  crowd  to  shake  hands,  and 
what  does  he  do  but  nod  his  head  at  me  kind 
of  careless  and  go  right  on  chinning  with  that 
old  mummy  of  a  banker!  Never  even  said 
'Hello,  Mike!'  On  the  level,  he  passed  me  up 
like  a  white  chip,  in  front  of  all  the  crowd  too ! ' ' 

"You  don't  say!" 

"If  I  had  been  trying  to  borrow  money  from 
him  he  couldn't  have  slipped  it  to  me  any 
stronger.  I  suppose  he  thinks  that  because  I 
run  a  poolroom  I  ain't  good  enough  for  him.  I 
always  knew  Jones  was  a  swelled-up  pup,  but 
I  didn't  think  he'd  have  the  nerve  to  pull  that 
high-and-mighty  stuff  on  me ! ' ' 

"He  ought  to  be  ashamed,"  says  Murph; 
"and  I'm  ashamed  of  him.  By  the  way,  Cas 
sidy,  you'll  have  lunch  with  me,  won't  you!" 

"I'd  be  proud  to,"  says  Cassidy. 

"All  right.  Bring  along  some  of  those  fence- 
busters  of  yours.  I'd  like  to  meet  'em." 

[189] 


SCORE   BY    INNINGS 


Well,  it  made  me  sick  to  see  the  way  Jones 
acted  round  the  hotel !  He  didn't  have  a  minute 
to  spare  for  any  one  but  the  bigbugs  of  the 
town;  and  when  the  local  ball  players  began 
to  drift  in  he  gave  'em  the  fishy  handshake  and 
the  frozen  eye.  They  got  together  and  held  an 
indignation  meeting  over  in  a  corner,  and  what 
they  said  about  Jones  was  surely  plenty. 

1  'And  we're  the  suckers,"  says  Cassidy, 
1 1  that  went  round  town  collecting  money  to  buy 
him  a  gold  watch!  Old  Sherwood  is  going  to 
present  it  to  him  to-night  at  the  banquet.  I 
chipped  in  two  bucks.  Say,  what  do  you  think 
of  that  guy  anyway?  Ain't  he  a  fright?" 

We  dressed  at  the  hotel ;  and,  just  before  we 
left  to  go  to  the  park,  Murph  got  the  bunch  to 
gether  and  gave  us  a  little  talk.  Jones  wasn't 
there.  He  had  a  party  of  doctors  and  lawyers 
and  bankers  up  in  his  room,  telling  'em  all 
about  the  Great  White  Way  and  life  in  the  big 
league.  I  heard  him  through  the  transom  and 
he  was  surely  laying  it  on  thick. 

"Now,  boys,"  says  Murph,  "the  time  to  jab 
a  hole  in  a  balloon  is  when  it's  so  swelled  up 
that  a  little  more  air  will  bust  it.  It 's  the  only 
chance  to  save  the  balloon.  Do  you  get  me?" 

"We  got  you  two  weeks  ago,  in  St.  Louis," 
says  Bug  Bellows;  "but  what  I  want  to  know 
is,  how  we're  going  to  throw  this  game  without 
the  crowd  getting  wise !  If  we  make  a  flock  of 
errors  everybody  will  be  on  in  a  minute.  And 
suppose  these  farmers  can't  hit  Jones!  How 
are  they  going  to  get  their  runs  ? ' ' 

[190] 


THE   BONE    DOCTOR 


Murph  shook  his  head  kind  of  sorrowful. 

"Bug,"  says  he,  "you  are  a  grand  ball  player 
from  the  neck  down!  Your  arms  and  legs  are 
all  right.  What  do  you  suppose  I  persuaded 
the  boss  to  let  us  play  this  date  for?  I'm  going 
to  be  in  there  catching,  ain't  I!  Well!" 

"Huh !  WThat 's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ? "  says 
Bug.  "It's  the  pitching  that  these  yaps  have 
got  to  hit — not  the  catching!  We  can  keep 
from  making  runs  without  much  trouble,  but 
how  are  we  going  to  force  'em  on  these 
farmers  ? ' ' 

Old  Murph  can  be  sarcastic  when  he  tries. 

"Mister  Bellows,"  says  he,  "I  don't  think 
we'll  make  many  errors  to-day.  I've  got  a 
little  plan  of  my  own — an  arrangement  between 
myself  and  me — that  ought  to  do  the  work.  I 
feel  as  though  I'd  like  to  try  it.  It  ought  to 
help  these  Verbena  fence-busters  quite  a  con 
siderable.  It's  just  possible  that  it  may  make 
Mrs.  Jones'  little  boy  look  like  an  awful  bad 
pitcher.  I  designed  it  with  that  notion  in  view. 
I  '11  try  it  out ;  the  rest  of  you  go  ahead  and  play 
ball.  If  it  doesn't  get  results  I'll  confer  with 
the  rest  of  you  strategists  and  we'll  switch  the 
system. 

"I  would  give  you  all  the  details,  Bug,  only 
I  left  my  brace,  bit  and  cold  chisel  at  home. 
Nothing  softer  than  steel  will  ever  drive  an 
idea  into  reinforced  concrete.  We  will  now 
adjourn  to  the  ball  yard,  and  while  I  try 
my  little  bone-shrinking  experiment  I  want  the 
rest  of  you  to  play  the  game.  Understand?" 

[191] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


"Well,"  says  Bug,  "I  don't  see  how  you  are 
going  to  pull  it  single-handed." 
For  that  matter,  neither  did  I. 


Maybe  a  few  bedridden  people  missed  that 
ball  game,  but  the  rest  of  Verbena  and  the 
surrounding  country  was  on  hand.  Talk  about 
your  big-league  baseball  fans !  If  you  want  to 
meet  the  real  red-hot  article  pick  a  town  of 
about  three  thousand  inhabitants,  where  every 
body  knows  everybody  else,  and  a  baseball  game 
is  a  personal  matter.  When  it  comes  to  rooting 
for  the  home  boys  the  small-town  fans  can  trim 
a  big-league  crowd  to  a  hoarse  whisper. 

In  this  case,  of  course,  there  wasn't  any  feel 
ing  of  rivalry — not  at  first.  The  Verbena  Stars 
were  going  out  of  their  class.  The  crowd  hoped 
they  would  make  some  sort  of  a  showing  and 
not  be  disgraced,  but  the  real  attraction  was 
Jones.  The  home  folks  wanted  to  see  him  in 
action,  now  that  he  was  a  big  leaguer  and,  as 
they  figured  it,  a  national  celebrity. 

Of  course  Jones  had  to  make  another  grand 
stand  entry,  so  there  couldn't  be  any  question 
about  whom  they  were  applauding.  It  wasn't 
possible  for  him  to  come  in  with  the  rest  of  us. 
We  were  all  on  the  field  before  he  came  in 
sight,  and  marching  beside  him  was  a  tall,  long 
haired  man  in  a  shiny  frock  coat  and  a  slouch 
hat.  I  never  saw  him  before  in  my  life,  but 
I  recognised  him  right  away — would  have 

[192] 


THE   BONE   DOCTOR 


recognised  him  anywhere.  He  was  the  local 
orator,  the  official  bazoo  of  the  village.  Every 
little  town  has  to  have  a  man  like  that  to  read 
the  Declaration  of  Independence  on  the  Fourth 
of  July  and  do  odd  jobs  of  talking  in  between, 
which  is  about  all  the  man  is  good  for,  as  a  rule. 
Usually  these  silver  tongues  get  started  wrong 
when  they  are  kids  and  are  named  the  Boy 
Orator  of  the  Something-or-other,  and  it  ruins 
'em  for  life.  This  long-haired,  limber-jawed 
specimen  was  called  the  Boy  Orator  of  the 
Scioto,  and  he  was  Verbena's  best  bet  in  the 
wind  jamming  stakes.  To  hand  him  all  that  is 
coming  to  him,  I  must  say  that  when  he  got  the 
eight  parts  of  speech  against  the  ropes  he  gave 
'em  an  awful  belting. 

There  wras  considerable  cheering  when  Jones 
appeared,  and  the  Boy  Orator  of  the  Scioto 
marched  him  out  to  the  home  plate  and  stopped. 
Of  course  we  all  gathered  round  in  a  half  circle, 
the  way  ball  players  do  when  anything  is  com 
ing  off.  The  silver-tongue  waited  for  the 
cheering  to  die  out — you  never  saw  one  of  'em 
that  really  wanted  it  to  stop — and  then  he 
passed  his  slouch  hat  to  the  bat  boy,  laid  his 
right  hand  on  Jones'  shoulder,  hoisted  his  left 
hand  in  the  air,  as  though  he  was  going  to  make 
a  catch,  and  let  fly  with  both  barrels. 

A  stranger  listening  to  that  address  would 
have  got  the  idea  that  Jones  was  Mathewson, 
Ty  Cobb,  Theodore  Roosevelt  and  Napoleon 
Bonaparte  all  rolled  into  one.  In  between 
flowery  references  to  Jones — yes,  he  called  him 

[1931 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


Verbena's  favourite  son — he  gave  us  the  his 
tory  of  baseball  from  the  Garden  of  Eden  down 
to  date;  and  every  little  while  he  would  slap 
Jones  on  the  back  and  the  cheering  would  bust 
loose  again.  The  tough  part  of  it  was  that 
the  rest  of  us  had  to  stand  there  and  listen  until 
the  Boy  Orator  ran  out  of  language,  which  he 
did  about  half  an  hour  after  he  ran  out  of  ideas. 
Jones  took  nine  bows — I  counted  'em — and  we 
went  back  to  practice,  thankful  that  it  was 
over. 

The  Verbena  Stars  were  a  rawboned,  husky 
lot,  and  what  they  lacked  in  style  they  made 
up  in  main  strength  and  awkwardness — fair 
fielders,  but  tremendous  hitters.  When  they 
swung  at  a  ball  and  landed  they  nailed  a  fence 
ticket  on  it. 

When  the  game  began  I  was  still  wondering 
what  Murph  had  up  his  sleeve.  Of  course  we 
all  understood  that  some  way  or  other  Jones 
had  to  be  trimmed  for  the  good  of  his  soul ;  but 
it  bothered  me  to  figure  out  how  we  were  going 
to  double-cross  him  without  playing  a  rotten 
fielding  game,  and  that  would  give  him  the  best 
pitcher's  alibi  in  the  world — poor  support. 
You  can't  say  a  whole  lot  to  a  losing  pitcher 
when  he  starts  telling  you  about  the  errors  you 
made  behind  him.  He's  got  the  box  score  on 
his  side  and  a  box  score  is  a  powerful 
argument. 

We  went  first  to  bat  and  the  Verbena  pitcher 
was  good  enough  to  make  a  goose  egg  look 
natural.  He  was  a  big,  flat-footed,  left-handed 

[194] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


farmer 's  boy,  with  a  neck  about  a  foot  long ;  but 
I've  seen  worse  than  him  in  the  big  league.  He 
pitched  more  with  his  arm  than  his  head;  but 
he  mixed  'em  up  pretty  well,  didn't  tip  his  fast 
one,  and  had  sense  enough  to  keep  it  inside  and 
across  the  letters.  He  fanned  me  in  the  first 
inning — fanned  me  on  the  level  too.  I  went 
after  the  third  one  just  to  see  what  I  could  do 
with  it,  and  the  break  fooled  me. 

When  we  went  out  one-two-three  I  thought 
the  crowd  would  go  crazy!  They  expected  a 
slaughter  from  the  start  and  the  goose  egg  set 
'em  to  rooting  for  the  home  team  as  well  as 
cheering  for  Jones.  Up  to  that  time  they  had 
regarded  the  game  as  a  walk-over  for  us ;  now 
they  could  see  that  we  were  just  ordinary 
human  beings. 

Well,  Jones  strutted  into  the  box,  cheered  to 
the  echo ;  and  every  move  was  a  picture.  Pose  ! 
He  posed  all  over  the  place.  Everything  had 
to  be  fancy.  He  couldn't  even  catch  a  ball  with 
out  slapping  it  into  his  glove,  a  trick  he  learned 
from  Pete  Bogan,  who  is  something  of  a  grand- 
stander  himself.  He  laughed  at  the  batters, 
joshed  the  umpire  and  kidded  the  crowd, 
and  otherwise  made  a  fool  of  himself. 
Along  with  everything  else  he  had  a  sort  of 
high  and  mighty  air — superciliousness,  I  think 
they  call  it.  I  can't  describe  it  any  other  way 
than  to  say  that  Jones  looked  at  those  Verbena 
batters  as  though  he  was  just  about  to  yawn 
and  sort  of  blamed  'em  for  keeping  him  up. 
It's  a  trick  that  can  be  done  with  the  nose  and 

[1951 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


one  eyebrow,  and  it 's  more  insulting  than  a  slap 
in  the  face. 

Two  of  the  Verbena  Stars  twinkled  out  in 
succession  and  then  Mike  Cassidy  came  up  to 
the  plate,  lugging  a  thick  black  bat  behind  him. 

"Please,  mister,"  says  he  to  Jones,  taking 
off  his  cap,  "pitch  to  me,  if  you'll  be  so  kind 
and  condescending.  I'll  try  not  to  show  you 
up." 

The  crowd  couldn't  hear  what  he  said,  but 
they  laughed  and  that  made  Jones  sore.  He 
got  the  sign  from  Murph  and  then  shook  his 
head.  You  understand  that  the  catcher  signals 
the  pitcher  whether  it  shall  be  a  fast  ball  or  a 
curve.  Murph  called  for  the  curve,  but  Jones 
shook  his  head.  He  was  stuck  on  his  fast  one, 
anyway,  and  he  wanted  to  use  it  to  make  Cas 
sidy  look  cheap. 

Well,  Jones  started  to  wind  up  and  Cassidy 
was  setting  himself  for  his  swing  almost  before 
the  ball  left  Jones'  hand.  Cassidy  didn't 
exactly  tear  the  cover  off  that  ball,  but  he  did 
the  next  best  thing — he  hit  the  centre-field  fence 
with  a  line  drive ;  and  if  it  had  been  three  feet 
higher  it  would  have  been  a  home  run.  He 
took  a  triple  on  it,  but  didn't  score,  for  Jones 
fanned  the  next  man. 

"Murph,"  says  Jones,  when  we  got  back  to 
the  bench,  "it's  been  so  long  since  you  caught  a 
game  that  you've  forgot  how  to  cover  up  your 
signs." 

"Gwan!"  says  Murph.  "I  was  covering  up 
battery  signs  before  you  was  born." 

[196] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


"That's  just  the  point.  It  was  so  long  ago 
that  you've  forgot  how." 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  son!" 

"I  don't  think.  I  know!  Cassidy  was  set 
for  that  fast  one  before  I  let  go  of  it.  He  knew 
it  was  coming  and  he  hit  it  a  mile." 

"Rats!  These  rubes  ain't  smart  enough  to 
steal  battery  signs." 

"Well,  be  more  careful,  will  you!" 

"Sure!"  says  Murph. 

I'll  have  to  explain  about  this  sign-tipping 
business  and  why  it's  important. 

The  main  advantage  that  the  pitcher  has 
over  the  batter  isn't  in  his  speed  or  in  the 
break  he  can  put  on  the  ball.  It's  in  the  fact 
that  the  batter  doesn't  know  until  the  ball  has 
left  the  pitcher's  hand  whether  it's  a  fast  one 
or  a  curve;  and  that  leaves  him  mighty  little 
time  for  thought  and  action.  He 's  got  to  judge 
the  speed  of  the  ball  and  figure  whether  it  will 
break  or  not  before  he  dares  to  swing  at  all. 

Any  time  the  batter  knows  in  advance  what 
sort  of  a  ball  the  pitcher  intends  to  throw  him 
the  advantage  is  on  the  other  side.  The  best 
pitcher  in  the  world  can't  beat  a  lot  of  men 
who  know  when  to  step  in  on  a  curve  and— 
what's  more  important — when  to  dig  their 
spikes  in  and  set  for  the  fast  one.  This  is  why 
we  use  coachers  who  have  the  knack  of  getting 
battery  signals  from  the  opposing  catcher  and 
flashing  'em  to  the  hitters.  A  pitcher  always 
knows  by  the  way  the  batters  act  whether  his 
signs  are  being  tipped  off  or  not;  and  when 

[197] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


they  are  it's  customary  to  switch  to  another 
code  in  the  middle  of  an  inning. 

Give  me  a  coacher  who  can  steal  battery  signs 
and  I'll  beat  a  good  pitcher  with  a  weak-hitting 
club.  It's  the  biggest  advantage  a  team  can 
have. 

I  didn  't  pay  much  attention  to  the  argument 
between  Murph  and  Jones.  It  sounded  to  me 
like  the  usual  pitcher's  alibi  for  Cassidy's  long 
hit  and  I  didn't  take  much  stock  in  the  theory 
that  the  rubes  were  getting  the  signs,  but  in 
the  third  inning  I  saw  something  that  opened 
my  eyes.  We  hadn't  made  any  runs  thus  far 
and  neither  had  the  Stars.  Jones  had  set  'em 
down  one-two-three  in  the  second  inning  and 
was  pitching  like  a  wild  man. 

The  Verbena  catcher  led  off  in  the  third  with 
a  fluke  bounder  of  the  sort  that  looks  bad  but  is 
really  as  good  as  a  better  one.  He  reached  first 
base  on  it  and  Jones  gave  me  a  bawl-out  for 
letting  it  jump  over  my  head.  Then  up  came 
the  flat-footed  farmer-boy  pitcher  with  the 
turkey  neck  and  a  bat  like  a  telegraph  pole: 
One  strike.  (Curve.)  One  ball.  (Curve.) 
Two  balls.  (Curve.) 

At  this  point  the  catcher  started  to  steal. 
Murph  juggled  the  ball  just  long  enough  to 
make  it  close  and  then  whizzed  it  down  to  me. 
The  umpire  called  the  runner  safe,  which  he 
was.  I  saw  to  that.  Jones  crabbed  some 
more,  and  the  crowd  began  to  stamp  and  yell 
to  the  pitcher  to  win  his  own  game.  Up  to 
this  time  Turkey-neck  hadn't  offered  at  a  ball, 

[198] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


Murph  gave  the  sign  for  the  fast  one,  and 
that  turkey-necked  rube  was  winding  up  for  his 
wallop  before  Jones  ever  let  go  of  the  ball !  He 
hit  it,  too,  with  everything  he  had,  freckles  and 
all.  I  heard  it  buzz  as  it  went  over  my  head  to 
centre  field ;  and  but  for  the  fence  it  would  have 
been  going  yet.  The  Verbena  catcher  went 
tearing  home  with  the  first  run,  and  pretty  soon 
Turkey-neck  came  lumbering  in  to  second, 
where  he  stopped.  He  couldn't  run  any  better 
than  most  pitchers. 

1  'That  was  some  hit,  boy,"  says  I;  "but  how 
did  you  know  the  fast  one  was  coming?" 

Turkey-neck  looked  at  me  and  pulled  up  his 
pants.  Then  he  winked. 

"A  little  bird  told  me,"  says  he. 

Jones  and  Murph  had  their  heads  together  in 
the  middle  of  the  diamond  and  I  strolled  up  to 
see  what  it  was  about. 

"They're  tipping  the  signs,  I  tell  you!"  says 
Jones.  "You  don't  half  cover  'em  up!" 

"We'll  switch,  then,"  says  Murph.  "Give 
'em  yourself  after  this;  but,  for  heaven's  sake, 
don't  cross  me!  I  ain't  got  but  two  good 
fingers  on  all  my  hands. ' ' 

Well,  they  changed  the  code,  Murph  making 
a  bluff  at  giving  signs,  but  really  taking  'em 
from  Jones.  The  next  hitter  crawled  up  on  top 
of  the  plate  and  flattened  a  curve  ball ;  and  the 
man  following  him  set  for  the  fast  one  and 
nearly  knocked  a  leg  off  Bug  Bellows  with  a 
drive  down  the  first-base  line. 

A  blind  man  could  see  that  they  were  getting 

[199] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


the  signs  and  Jones  stopped  the  game  again 
while  he  told  his  troubles  to  Murph.  The 
crowd  jumped  the  floor  out  of  the  grandstand 
and  asked  him  why  he  didn't  get  a  tele 
phone. 

"Three  runs!     Three  runs!"  they  yelled. 

Then,  when  it  was  finally  fixed  up  and  a  third 
set  of  signals  was  in  operation,  along  came 
Cassidy  to  the  bat.  The  switch  in  the  signal 
code  didn't  bother  him  a  bit.  He  let  the  curves 
go  by,  but  he  nailed  the  first  fast  ball  for  a 
double,  scoring  another  run.  Cassidy  arrived 
at  second  base  feet  first  and  grinning. 

"You'd  better  gag  your  catcher,"  says  he, 
"or  we'll  run  ourselves  to  death!" 

Well,  of  course  I  knew  Murph  was  mixed  up 
in  it  somewhere,  but  I  never  thought  he  would 
use  a  method  so  simple  and  direct  as  that  one. 
The  old  rascal  had  been  squatting  there  in  the 
very  shade  of  the  bats  and  telling  those  fellows 
what  to  wait  for  and  what  to  take  a  slam  at! 
No  wonder  he  wanted  to  make  the  Verbena 
trip !  No  wonder  he  insisted  on  catching  the 
game!  No  wonder  he  had  been  so  chummy 
with  the  Verbena  players  at  lunch! 

The  rest  of  the  game  was  a  joke  to  everybody 
but  Jones.  He  nearly  went  into  hysterics  on 
the  bench  after  the  third  inning;  and  in  the 
fourth,  with  the  bases  full  and  two  runs  home, 
he  swallowed  the  little  lump  which  was  all 
that  was  left  of  his  pride  and  begged  Murph 
to  take  him  out  of  the  box — yes,  begged ! 

"This  is  Jones  Day,"  says  Murph;  "and  it 
[200] 


THE   BONE    DOCTOR 


looks  like  they're  going  to  make  it  one  that 
you'll  remember.  The  big  show  is  not  yet  half 
over." 

"But  what's  the  use?"  wiiined  Jonesy. 
"They've  got  the  signs  again!" 

"Stay  in  and  take  it,  my  son!"  says  Murph. 
"It's  bitter  medicine,  but  it's  good  for  what 
ails  you.  I  wouldn't  look  round  for  an  alibi 
if  I  was  you.  Stay  and  take  it!" 

And  the  crowd!  You  know  what  baseball 
fans  are  like.  They're  with  you  and  for  you 
just  so  long  as  you're  winning,  but  the  minute 
you  hit  the  toboggan  it's  thumbs  down  and  the 
sole  of  the  foot  for  yours;  and  the  more  fuss 
they've  made  over  you  as  a  winner,  the  harder 
they  hand  it  to  you  when  you  lose. 

In  the  sixth  inning,  when  the  Stars  had 
enough  runs  corded  up  to  win  a  whole  World's 
Series,  the  fans  began  to  go  after  Jones,  booing 
and  hooting  and  yelling : 

"Take  him  out!  Give  us  a  regular  pitcher! 
He's  rotten!  Take  him  out!  Phew!" 

Just  to  make  it  more  binding,  the  Boy  Orator 
of  the  Scioto  was  standing  on  a  chair  shaking 
the  wire  netting  and  making  more  noise  than 
anybody  else,  which  goes  to  show  you  how  far 
a  public  idol  can  fall  in  an  hour  and  twenty 
minutes. 

It  was  the  last  straw.  The  hostile  demon 
stration  against  him  upset  Jones  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  couldn't  have  found  the  plate 
with  a  lantern;  and  after  two  bases  on  balls 
and  one  of  the  wildest  of  wild  pitches  ever  seen 

[201] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


in  this  world  Murph  sent  him  to  the  bench— 
and  did  it  in  such  a  way  that  the  crowd  hooted 
louder  that  ever.  As  a  bone  doctor  Murph 
was  certainly  an  allopath ;  no  stingy  little  doses 
for  him ! 

Oh,  but  it  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  Jonesy 
leaving  the  diamond  with  his  chest  caved  in 
against  his  backbone  and  his  lower  lip  hanging 
like  a  red  undershirt  on  a  line!  Everything 
about  him  seemed  to  have  shrunk.  He  was  a 
foot  shorter;  his  shoulders  sagged;  his  spikes 
dragged  in  the  dirt;  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
his  ears  his  cap  would  have  fallen  down  over 
his  eyes.  He  was  the  most  pitiable-looking 
wreck  I  ever  saw,  and  there  wasn't  pride 
enough  left  in  him  to  stock  a  flea — a  favourite 
son  without  a  relation  left  in  town ! 

Pete  Bogan  went  in  and  struck  out  the  next 
three  men — it  wouldn't  do  to  let  those  farmers 
get  too  chesty;  and  when  Jones  saw  that  he 
slid  off  the  bench  and  sort  of  faded  out  of  sight, 
just  evaporated,  and  nobody  knew  when  or 
which  way  he  went. 

We  gave  the  Stars  a  battle  in  the  last  three 
innings  and  the  final  score  was  eighteen  to  thir 
teen  in  favour  of  Verbena.  They  didn't  make 
any  runs  after  Jones  was  taken  out.  We  rather 
thought  the  crowd  would  draw  some  conclu 
sions  from  that. 

When  we  left  the  park  the  open-faced  hack 
with  the  four  black  horses  was  still  waiting  for 
Jones;  but  as  he  didn't  show  up  and  nobody 
knew  where  he  was,  and  even  the  driver  didn't 

[202] 


THE    BONE    DOCTOR 


seem  to  care,  Cassidy,  Murph  and  me  rode  back 
to  the  hotel  in  it. 

We  agreed  that  it  was  too  good  a  joke  to 
tell  to  common  people. 

We  found  Jones  later,  locked  in  his  room, 
with  the  transom  down ;  and  it  took  Murph  and 
seven  members  of  the  Reception  Committee  to 
persuade  him  that  he  really  ought  to  attend  the 
banquet  in  his  honour. 

He  appeared  at  last,  a  little  pale  round  the 
gills,  but  perfectly  tame.  A  child  could  have 
handled  him  without  any  trouble.  He  didn't 
wear  the  full-dress  suit  and  he  acted  as  though 
he  wanted  to  make  himself  as  inconspicuous  as 
possible.  There  was  a  lot  of  speech-making,  of 
course — mostly  collar-and-elbow  stuff  in  glori 
fication  of  the  home  team.  The  Boy  Orator  of 
the  Scioto  had  to  scratch  his  entry;  he  was  so 
hoarse  he  could  barely  croak — and  that  helped 
some. 

I  didn't  really  feel  sorry  for  Jones  until  old 
Sherwood  got  up  to  present  the  gold  watch. 
He  sympathised  with  Jones  and  slobbered  over 
him  considerable,  and  told  him  not  to  be  down 
hearted  about  his  licking.  He  said  it  ought  to 
be  a  comfort  to  Jones  to  remember  that  he  came 
from  a  town  where  real  ball  players  were  de 
veloped;  and  that  if  he  persevered—  And 
so  on.  Anybody  can  pour  vinegar  on  a  raw 
spot,  but  it  takes  a  well-meaning  fool  to  rub 
it  in. 

Poor  Jones  had  to  respond.  He  swallowed 
hard  and  began  to  mumble  something  about 

[203] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


every  pitcher  having  a  bad  day  once  in  a  while. 

"Yeh,"  says  Mike  Cassidy,  who  was  pretty 
well  illuminated  by  this  time;  "we  know  this 
was  going  to  be  yours,  so  we  named  it  after 
you ! ' ' 

Everybody  roared,  and  Jones  turned  red  and 
sat  down  without  thanking  'em  for  the  watch, 
which  they  noticed  and  commented  on  after 
ward. 

We  can't  tell  yet,  of  course;  but  we  think  that 
Doc  Murph's  bone-shrinking  treatment  will  be 
a  success.  There  is  a  wonderful  improvement 
in  Jonesy.  He  has  a  relapse  now  and  then ;  but 
if  he  gets  going  too  strong  somebody  is  sure  to 
ask  him  the  time  of  day.  That  stops  him. 


[204] 


HIS  OWN  STUFF 


IT's  a  mighty  fine  thing  for  a  man  to  know 
when  he's  had  enough,  but  there's  a  piece 
of  knowledge   which   beats  it   all  hollow. 
That's  for  him  to  know  when  his  friends 
have  had  too  much. 

This  is  no  temperance  sermon,  so  you  needn't 
quit  reading.  It's  the  story  of  a  baseball  player 
who  thought  he  was  funny  and  didn't  know 
when  to  quit  the  rough-and-tumble  comedy  that 
some  idiot  has  named  practical  joking. 

Before  I  tell  you  what  happened  to  Tom 
O'Connor  because  he  didn't  know  when  to  quit 
being  funny,  I  want  to  put  myself  on  record.  I 
don't  believe  that  there  is  any  such  a  thing  as  a 
practical  joke.  As  I  understand  the  word,  a 
thing  in  order  to  be  practical  must  have  some 
sense  to  it  and  be  of  some  use  to  people.  To 
play  it  safe  I  looked  up  the  dictionary  defini 
tion  of  the  word  to  see  if  I  could  stretch  it  far 
enough  to  cover  the  sort  of  stuff  that  Tom 
O'Connor  pulled  on  us  at  the  training  camp  last 
season.  I  couldn't  make  it  answer.  Here's 
what  I  found  in  the  dictionary : 

[205] 


SCOKE   BY   INNINGS 


"  PRACTICAL — pertaining  to  or  governed  by 
actual  use  or  experience,  as  contrasted  with 
ideals,  speculations  and  theories." 

That's  what  the  big  book  says  it  means,  and 
I  string  with  the  definition  whether  I  under 
stand  all  of  it  or  not.  Show  me  anything  in 
there  that  applies  to  sawing  out  half  the  slats 
in  a  man's  bed  or  mixing  up  all  the  shoes  in  a 
Pullman  car  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning! 

You  can  call  it  practical  joking  if  you  want 
to,  but  it  won't  go  with  me.  I  claim  there's 
nothing  practical  about  it,  or  sensible  either. 
Practical  joking  is  just  another  name  for  plain, 
ordinary  foolishness  with  a  mean  streak  in  it. 
The  main  thing  about  a  practical  joke  is  that 
somebody  always  gets  hurt — usually  an  inno 
cent  party. 

I'm  strong  for  a  good  clever  joke.  I  get  as 
much  fun  out  of  one  as  anybody  and  I  can  laugh 
when  the  joke  is  on  me;  but  when  it  comes  to 
the  rough  stuff  I  pass. 

Take  'em  as  a  whole,  baseball  players  are  a 
jolly  bunch.  They've  got  youth  and  health  and 
vitality.  They  call  us  the  Old  Guard,  but  we  're 
really  nothing  but  a  lot  of  young  fellows  and 
we  have  the  reputation  of  being  the  liveliest 
outfit  in  the  league ;  but  even  so,  we  got  sick  of 
the  sort  of  stunts  that  Tom  O'Connor  handed 
us  at  the  training  camp  and  in  the  early  part 
of  the  season. 

We  didn't  have  much  of  a  line  on  Tom  when 
he  joined  the  club.  He'd  been  in  the  big  league 

[206] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


only  part  of  the  season  previously,  and  he  came 
to  the  Old  Guard  as  the  result  of  a  winter  trade. 
We  needed  a  first-baseman  the  worst  way,  and 
Uncle  Billy — he's  our  manager — gave  up  a 
pitcher,  an  infielder  and  an  outfielder  to  get 
Tom  O'Connor  away  from  the  Blues.  The 
newspapers  made  an  awful  roar  about  that 
trade,  and  so  did  the  fans.  They  said  Uncle 
Billy  was  out  of  his  head  and  was  trying  to 
wreck  the  team  by  letting  three  good  men  go. 
The  noise  they  made  wasn't  a  whisper  to  the 
howl  that  when  up  from  the  other  manager 
when  the  time  came  to  get  some  work  out  of 
those  three  good  men. 

When  it  comes  to  a  swap,  Uncle  Billy  is  a 
tougher  proposition  than  a  Connecticut  Yank, 
and  a  Connecticut  Yank  can  take  an  Armenian 
pawnbroker's  false  teeth  away  from  him  and 
give  him  Brazil  nuts  in  exchange  for  'em. 
Uncle  Billy  always  hands  the  other  managers 
three  or  four  men  for  one.  He's  so  liberal  and 
open-hearted  that  they  feel  sorry  for  him,  and 
they  keep  right  on  feeling  sorry  after  they  see 
what  he's  slipped  them  in  the  trade. 

In  this  case  the  pitcher  had  a  strained  liga 
ment  that  even  the  bone-setter  couldn't  fix,  the 
infielder 's  eyes  were  giving  out  on  him  and  the 
outfielder  had  a  permanent  charley-horse  in  his 
left  leg.  As  big-league  ballplayers  they  were 
all  through,  but  as  benchwarmers  and  salary- 
grabbers  they  were  immense. 

Even  if  they  had  been  in  condition  I  think 
that  Tom  0  'Connor  would  have  been  worth  the 

[207] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


three,  for  he  is  a  cracking  good  first-baseman, 
and  now  that  he  has  settled  down  to  business 
and  quit  being  the  team  comedian  he  '11  be  even 
better  than  he  was  last  year. 

He  joined  us  at  the  spring  training  camp  in 
Louisiana.  We've  been  going  to  the  same  place 
for  years.  It's  a  sort  of  health  resort  with 
rotten  water  to  drink  and  baths;  and  the  hotel 
is  always  full  of  broken-down  old  men  with 
whiskers  and  fat  wives  to  look  after  'em. 

0  'Connor  turned  up  in  the  main  dining-room 
the  first  night  with  a  big  box  of  marshmallows 
in  his  hand.  He  is  a  tall,  handsome  chap  with 
a  tremendous  head  of  hair  and  a  smile  that  sort 
of  warms  you  to  him  even  after  you  know  him. 
He  stopped  at  every  table  and  invited  folks  to 
help  themselves. 

"These  are  very  choice,  madam;  something 
new  in  confectionery.  Prepared  by  a  friend  of 
mine.  Won't  you  try  one?" 

That  was  his  spiel,  but  the  smile  and  the  little 
twinkle  of  the  eye  that  went  with  it  was  what 
did  the  business.  The  fat  ladies  didn't  stop  to 
think  that  it  was  rather  unusual  for  a  strange 
young  man  to  be  offering  them  candy.  They 
smiled  back  at  Tom  and  helped  themselves  to 
the  marshmallows,  and  some  of  them  insisted 
that  their  husbands  should  try  one  too. 

Tom  was  a  smooth,  rapid  worker  and  he  kept 
moving,  not  stopping  long  at  a  table  and  never 
looking  back.  Perhaps  that  was  just  as  well, 
for  the  marshmallow  had  been  dipped  in 
powdered  quinine  instead  of  powdered  sugar. 

[208] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


Quinine  ain't  so  bad  when  you  expect  it,  but 
when  your  mouth  is  all  fixed  for  marshmallow 
the  disappointment  and  the  quinine  together 
make  a  strong  combination.  The  fat  ladies 
went  out  of  the  dining-room  on  the  run,  choking 
into  their  handkerchiefs,  and  the  old  men  sent 
C.  Q.  D.s  for  the  proprietor.  He  came  in  and 
Tom  met  him  at  the  door  and  handed  him  one 
of  the  marshmallows,  and  then  of  course  every 
body  laughed. 

I  admit  that  we  might  have  begun  discourag 
ing  his  comedy  right  there.  We  would  have 
done  it  if  he'd  been  a  minor-leaguer  trying  to 
break  in,  but  he  wasn't.  He 'd  been  five  months 
with  the  Blues — a  bad  ball  club,  but  still  in  the 
big  league.  That  made  him  one  of  us.  We 
knew  and  he  knew  that  he  was  going  to  be  our 
first-baseman  and  he  settled  down  with  as  much 
assurance  as  if  he  had  been  with  us  ten  years 
instead  of  ten  hours. 

He  saw  right  away  that  we  were  going  to  be 
a  good  audience  for  him.  Not  all  of  his  stuff 
was  on  the  rough-house  order.  Some  of  us 
were  not  long  in  finding  that  out. 

A  couple  of  nights  afterward  we  were  having 
a  nice,  quiet  little  game  of  draw  poker  in  my 
room  on  the  third  floor  of  the  hotel.  Any 
poker  game  running  after  ten  o'clock  in  the 
same  hotel  with  Uncle  Billy  has  got  to  be  a 
quiet  one — or  it's  a  case  of  a  fifty-dollar  fine 
all  round. 

Uncle  Billy  is  a  great  baseball  manager  but 
he's  awfully  narrow-gauge  on  certain  subjects, 

[209] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


and  one  of  'em  is  the  American  indoor  national 
pastime  of  draw  poker.  He  doesn't  like  the 
game  for  seven  hundred  different  reasons,  buc 
mainly  because  he  says  it  sets  a  bad  example  to 
the  kid  players,  who  get  to  gambling  among 
themselves  and  lose  more  than  they  can  afford. 
That's  true  of  course,  but  if  a  kid  is  born  with 
the  gambling  bug  in  his  system  you  can't  fine 
it  out  of  him,  not  even  at  fifty  a  smash.  One 
season  Uncle  Billy  tried  to  shut  down  on  poker 
altogether,  and  there  was  more  poker  played 
that  year  than  ever  before.  Then  he  took  off 
the  lid,  and  now  we're  allowed  to  play  twenty- 
five-cent  limit  until  ten  o  'clock  at  night.  Think 
of  it!  Why,  if  a  man  had  all  the  luck  in  the 
world  and  filled  everything  he  drew  to  he  might 
win  as  much  as  four  dollars ! 

I'm  not  saying  that  the  rule  isn't  a  good  one 
for  recruits  and  kids,  but  it  comes  hard  on  the 
veterans,  especially  at  the  training  camp  where 
there  isn't  a  thing  to  do  after  dark.  We  used 
to  sneak  a  real  game  once  in  a  while  with  a 
blanket  over  the  transom  and  paper  stuffed  in 
the  cracks  and  the  keyhole.  We  had  to  do  that 
because  we  couldn't  trust  Uncle  Billy.  He  was 
just  underhanded  enough  to  listen  outside  of 
door,  and  to  make  it  worse  the  poor  old  coot 
has  insomnia  and  we  never  know  when  he's 
asleep  and  when  he 's  not. 

Well,  this  poker  party  in  my  room  was  the 
real  thing:  Pat  Dunphy,  Holliday,  Satterfield, 
Meadows,  Daly  and  myself — all  deep-sea 
pirates.  It  was  table-stakes  of  course,  every 

[210] 


HIS    OWN    STUFF 


man  declaring  fifty  or  a  hundred  behind  his 
stack  in  case  he  should  pick  up  something  heavy 
and  want  action  on  it. 

It  got  to  be  about  two  in  the  morning,  and 
Dunphy  was  yawning  his  head  off  and  looking 
at  his  watch  every  few  minutes.  He  was  two 
hundred  ahead.  The  rest  of  us  were  up  and 
down,  seesawing  along  and  waiting  for  a  set  of 
fours  or  something.  The  elevators  had  quit 
running  long  ago  and  there  wasn't  a  sound  in 
the  hotel  anywhere.  What  talking  we  did  was 
in  whispers  because  we  never  knew  when  Uncle 
Billy  might  take  it  into  his  head  to  go  for  a 
walk.  I've  known  him  to  bust  up  a  poker  game 
at  four  in  the  morning. 

Dunphy  was  just  scooping  in  another  nice 
pot — like  a  fool  I  played  my  pat  straight 
against  his  one-card  draw — when  all  of  a 
sudden  a  board  creaked  in  the  hall  outside,  and 
then  came  a  dry,  raspy  little  cough  that  we 
knew  mighty  well. 

* '  Holy  Moses ! ' '  whispered  Dunphy.  *  *  Uncle 
Billy!  Don't  move!" 

Then  somebody  pounded  on  the  door.  We 
were  sure  there  wasn't  any  light  showing 
through  the  cracks,  so  we  sat  quiet  a  few 
seconds  trying  to  think  what  to  do.  The  pound 
ing  began  again,  louder  than  before — bangety- 
bang-bang ! 

Well,  our  only  chance  was  to  keep  Uncle 
Billy  out  of  the  room,  so  I  motioned  to  the  boys 
and  they  picked  up  their  money  and  chips  and 
tiptoed  into  the  alcove  in  the  corner.  I  whipped 

[211] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


off  my  shirt,  kicked  off  my  pants,  put  on  a  bath 
robe,  tousled  up  my  hair  to  make  it  look  as  if 
I'd  been  asleep  a  week,  switched  out  the  light 
and  opened  the  door  a  few  inches.  Then  I 
stepped  out  into  the  hall. 

It  was  empty  from  end  to  end.  There  wasn't 
a  soul  in  sight. 

We  had  a  long  discussion  about  it.  "We  all 
agreed  that  it  was  Uncle  Billy's  cough  we 
heard;  but  why  had  he  hammered  on  the  door 
so  hard  and  then  gone  away?  That  wasn't  like 
him.  Had  he  been  round  to  the  otuer  rooms 
checking  up  on  us?  Was  he  so  sure  of  us  that 
he  didn't  need  the  actual  evidence?  Perhaps 
he  was  going  to  switch  his  system  and  begin 
fining  people  fifty  dollars  apiece  on  circum 
stantial  evidence.  It  began  to  have  all  the  ear 
marks  of  an  expensive  evening  for  the  six  of  us. 

"Did  anybody  else  know  about  this  party?" 
I  asked. 

"O'Connor  knew,"  Holliday  spoke  up.  "I 
asked  him  if  he  didn't  want  to  play  a  little 
poker.  He  said  he  couldn't  take  a  chance  of 
getting  in  Dutch  with  the  boss  so  soon.  That 
was  his  excuse,  but  maybe  he  was  a  little  light 
in  the  vest  pocket.  He  already  knew  about  the 
ten  o'clock  rule  and  the  fifty-dollar  fine." 

"Did  he  know  we  were  going  to  play  in  this 
room!" 

"Sure,  but  I  don't  see  where  you  figure  him. 
He  wouldn't  have  tipped  it  off  to  anybody. 
Probably  Uncle  Billy  couldn't  sleep  and  was 
prowling  round.  You  can 't  get  away  from  that 

[212] 


HIS    OWN    STUFF 


cough.  And  he's  got  us  dead  to  rights  or  he 
wouldn't  have  gone  away.  I'll  bet  he's  had  a 
pass-key  and  been  in  every  one  of  our  rooms. 
We  '11  hear  from  him  in  the  morning. ' ' 

It  did  look  that  way.  We  settled  up  and  the 
boys  slipped  out  one  at  a  time,  carrying  their 
shoes  in  their  hands.  I  don't  know  about  the 
rest  of  'em,  but  I  didn't  sleep  much.  The  fifty- 
dollar  fine  didn't  bother  me,  but  Uncle  Billy  has 
got  a  way  of  throwing  in  a  roast  along  with  it. 

I  dreaded  to  go  down  to  breakfast  in  the 
morning.     Uncle  Billy  usually  has  a  table  with 
his  wife  and  kids  close  to  the  door,  so  he  can 
give  us  the  once-over  as  we  come  in. 

"  'Morning,  Bob!."  says  Uncle  Billy,  smiling 
over  his  hotcakes.  "How  do  you  feel  this 
morning ! ' ' 

II  Finer 'n  split  silk!"  says  I,  and  went  on 
over  to  the  main  table  with  the  gang.     That 
started  me  to  wondering,  because  if  Uncle  Billy 
had  anything  on  me  he  wouldn't  have  smiled. 
The  best  I  could  have  expected  was  a  black  look 
and  a  grunt.     Uncle  Billy  was  a  poor  hand  at 
hiding  his  feelings.     If  he  was  peeved  with  you 
it  showed  in  everything  he  did.     I  didn't  know 
what  to  make  of  that  smile,  and  that's  what  had 
me  worried. 

Dunphy  and  Holliday  and  the  others  were 
puzzled  too,  and  the  suspense  was  eating  us  up. 
We  sat  there,  looking  silly  and  fooling  with  our 
knives  and  forks,  every  little  while  stealing  a 
peek  at  each  other.  We  couldn't  figure  it  at 
all.  Tom  0  'Connor  was  at  one  end  of  the  table 

[213] 


SCOEE    BY    INNINGS 


eating  like  a  longshoreman  and  saying  nothing. 
Dunphy  stood  the  strain  as  long  as  he  could 
and  then  he  cracked. 

"Did  Uncle  Billy  call  on  any  of  you  fellows 
last  night!"  said  he. 

"No!  Was  he  sleep-walking  again,  the  old 
rascal?" 

"Was  anything  doing!" 

"He  never  came  near  the  fourth  floor.  If  he 
had  he'd  'a'  busted  up  a  hot  little  crap  game." 

"What  was  he  looking  for — poker!" 

None  of  the  boys  had  seen  him.  It  was  plain 
that  if  Uncle  Billy  had  been  night-prowling  we 
were  the  only  ones  that  he  had  bothered. 
Peachy  Parsons  spoke  up. 

"Did  you  see  him,  Pat!"  says  he. 

"Why,  no,"  says  Dunphy.  "I — I  heard 
him." 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  dead  silence. 
Then  Tom  O'Connor  shoved  his  chair  back, 
stood  up,  looked  all  round  the  table  with  a 
queer  grin  on  his  face  and  coughed  once — that 
same  dry,  raspy  little  cough.  It  sounded  so 
much  like  Uncle  Billy  that  we  all  jumped. 

O'Connor  didn't  wait  for  the  laugh.  He 
walked  out  of  the  dining-room  and  left  us  look 
ing  at  each  other  with  our  mouths  open. 

ii 

I  knew  a  busher  once  who  tore  off  a  home  run 
the  first  time  he  came  to  bat  in  the  big  league, 
and  it  would  have  been  a  lot  better  for  him  if 

[214] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


he  had  struck  out.  The  fans  got  to  calling  him 
Home-Eun  Slattery  and  he  got  to  thinking  he 
was  all  of  that.  He  wouldn't  have  a  base  on 
balls  as  a  gift  and  he  wouldn't  bunt.  He 
wanted  to  knock  the  cover  off  every  ball  he 
saw.  Uncle  Billy  shipped  him  back  to  Texas  in 
June,  and  he's  there  yet.  In  a  way  O'Connor 
reminded  me  of  that  busher. 

He  had  made  a  great  start  as  a  comedian. 
The  stuff  that  he  put  over  on  the  poker  players 
was  clever  and  legitimate;  there  was  real  fun 
in  it.  His  reputation  as  a  two-handed  kidder 
was  established  then  and  there,  and  he  might 
have  rested  on  it  until  he  thought  of  something 
else  as  good.  He  might  have;  but  we  laughed 
at  him,  and  then  of  course  he  wanted  to  put 
the  next  one  over  the  fence  too. 

I  can  see  now  looking  back  at  it,  that  we 
were  partly  responsible.  You  know  how  it  is 
with  a  comedian — the  more  you  laugh  at  him, 
the  worse  he  gets.  Pretty  soon  he  wants  laughs 
all  the  time,  and  if  they're  not  written  into  his 
part  he  tries  to  make  'em  up  as  he  goes  along. 
If  he  hasn't  got  any  new,  clever  ideas  he  pulls 
old  stuff  or  rough  stuff — in  other  words  he  gets 
to  be  a  slapstick  comedian.  A  good  hiss  or  two 
or  a  few  rotten  eggs  at  the  right  time  would 
teach  him  to  stay  with  legitimate  work. 

It  didn't  take  Tom  long  to  run  out  of  clever 
comedy  and  get  down  to  the  rough  stuff. 
Rough  stuff  is  the  backbone  of  practical  joking. 
Things  began  to  happen  round  the  training 
camp.  We  couldn't  actually  prove  'em  on 

[215] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


Tom  at  the  time — and  we  haven't  proved  'em 
on  him  yet — but  the  circumstantial  evidence  is 
all  against  him.  He  wouldn't  have  a  chance 
with  a  jury  of  his  peers — whatever  they  are. 

Tom  began  easy  and  worked  up  his  speed  by 
degrees.  His  first  stunts  were  mild  ones,  such 
as  leaving  a  lot  of  bogus  calls  with  the  night 
clerk  and  getting  a  lot  of  people  rung  out  of 
bed  at  four  in  the  morning;  but  of  course  that 
wasn't  funny  enough  to  suit  him. 

There  was  a  girl  from  Memphis  stopping  at 
the  hotel,  and  Joe  Holliday  the  pitcher  thought 
pretty  well  of  her.  He  borrowed  an  automo 
bile  one  Sunday  to  take  her  for  a  ride.  After 
they  were  about  twenty  miles  from  town  the 
engine  sneezed  a  few  times  and  laid  down  cold. 

" Don't  worry,"  says  Holliday,  "I  know  all 
about  automobiles.  I'll  have  this  bird  flying 
again  in  a  minute." 

"It  sounded  to  me  as  if  you'd  run  out  of 
gas,"  said  the  girl,  who  knew  something  about 
cars  herself. 

"Impossible!"  says  Holliday.  "I  had  the 
tank  filled  this  morning  and  you  can  see  there's 
no  leak." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  all  about  automobiles," 
says  the  girl,  "but  you'd  better  take  a  look  in 
that  tank." 

That  made  Holliday  a  little  sore,  because 
he'd  bought  twenty  gallons  of  gasoline  and  paid 
for  it.  They  stayed  there  all  day  and  Holliday 
messed  round  in  the  bowels  of  the  beast  and 
got  full  of  oil  and  grease  and  dirt.  I'll  bet  he 

[216] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


stored  up  enough  profanity  inside  of  him  to 
last  for  the  rest  of  his  natural  life.  And  all 
the  time  the  girl  kept  fussing  about  the  gaso 
line  tank.  Finally,  after  Joe  had  done  every 
thing  else  that  he  could  think  of,  he  unscrewed 
the  cap  and  the  gas  tank  was  dry  as  a  bone. 

Somebody  with  a  rare  sense  of  humour  had 
drawn  off  about  seventeen  gallons  of  gasoline. 

1 '  I  told  you  so ! "  said  the  girl — which  is  just 
about  what  a  girl  would  say  under  the  circum 
stances. 

They  got  back  to  the  hotel  late  that  night. 
Love's  young  dream  had  run  out  with  the  gaso 
line,  and  from  what  I  could  gather  they  must 
have  quarrelled  all  the  way  home.  Joe  went 
down  and  got  into  a  fight  with  the  man  at  the 
garage  and  was  hit  over  the  head  with  a 
monkey-wrench.  From  now  on  you'll  notice 
that  Tom's  comedy  was  mostly  physical  and 
people  were  getting  hurt  every  time. 

Joe's  troubles  lasted  O'Connor  for  a  couple 
of  days  and  then  he  hired  a  darky  boy  to  get 
him  a  water  snake.  I  think  he  wrote  it  in  the 
boy's  contract  that  the  snake  had  to  be  harm 
less  or  there  was  nothing  doing.  He  put  the 
snake,  a  whopping  big  striped  one,  between  the 
sheets  in  Al  Jorgenson's  bed,  which  is  my  no 
tion  of  no  place  in  the  world  to  put  a  snake. 
Jorgenson  is  our  club  secretary — a  middle-aged 
fellow  who  never  has  much  to  say  and  attends 
strictly  to  business. 

Al  rolled  on  to  the  snake  in  the  dark,  but  it 
seems  he  knew  what  it  was  right  away.  He 

[217] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


wrecked  half  the  furniture,  tore  the  door  off 
the  hinges  and  came  fluttering  down  into  the 
lobby,  yelling  murder  at  every  jump.  It  was 
just  his  luck  that  the  old  ladies  were  all  pres 
ent.  They  were  pulling  off  a  whist  tournament 
that  night,  but  they  don't  know  yet  who  won. 
Al  practically  spoiled  the  whole  evening  for 
'em. 

The  charitable  way  to  look  at  it  is  that  Tom 
didn't  know  that  Jorgenson  was  hitting  the 
booze  pretty  hard  and  kept  a  quart  bottle  in 
his  room.  If  he  had  known  that,  maybe  he 
would  have  wished  the  snake  on  to  a  teetotaler, 
like  Uncle  Billy.  To  make  it  a  little  more 
abundant  Tom  slipped  in  and  copped  the  snake 
while  Al  was  doing  his  shirt-tail  specialty,  and 
when  we  got  him  back  to  the  room  there  wasn't 
any  snake  there.  Tom  circulated  round  among 
the  old  ladies  and  told  'em  not  to  be  alarmed 
in  the  least  because  maybe  it  wasn't  a  real 
snake  that  Jorgenson  saw. 

But  Tom  had  his  good  points  after  all.  The 
next  morning  Al  found  the  snake  tied  to  his 
door-knob,  which  relieved  his  mind  a  whole 
lot;  but  he  was  so  mortified  and  ashamed  that 
he  had  all  his  meals  in  his  room  after  that  and 
used  to  come  and  go  by  the  kitchen  entrance. 

Tom's  next  stunt — which  he  didn't  make  any 
secret  of — put  four  of  the  kid  recruits  out  of 
business.  He  framed  up  a  midnight  hunt  for 
killyloo  birds.  It's  the  old  snipe  trick.  I 
didn't  believe  that  there  were  four  people  left 
in  the  world  who  would  fall  for  that  stunt.  It 

[218] 


HIS    OWN    STUFF 


was  invented  by  one  of  old  man  Pharaoh's  boys 
in  the  days  of  the  Nile  Valley  League.  It  is 
hard  to  find  one  man  in  the  whole  town  who  will 
fall  for  it,  because  it  has  been  so  well  adver 
tised,  but  Tom  grabbed  four  in  a  bunch.  It 
just  goes  to  show  how  much  solid  ivory  a  base 
ball  scout  can  dig  up  when  his  travelling  ex 
penses  are  paid. 

The  idea  is  very  simple.  First  you  catch  a 
sucker  and  take  him  out  in  the  woods  at  night. 
You  give  him  a  sack  and  a  candle.  He's  to 
keep  the  candle  lighted  and  hold  the  mouth  of 
the  sack  open  so  that  you  can  drive  the  killyloo 
birds  into  it.  The  main  point  is  to  make  it  per 
fectly  clear  to  the  sucker  that  a  killyloo  bird 
when  waked  out  of  a  sound  sleep  always  walks 
straight  to  the  nearest  light  to  get  his  feet 
warm.  After  the  sucker  understands  that 
thoroughly  you  can  leave  him  and  go  home 
to  bed.  He  sits  there  with  his  candle,  fighting 
mosquitoes  and  wondering  what  has  become  of 
you  and  why  the  killyloo  birds  don't  show  up. 

Tom  staged  his  production  in  fine  style.  He 
rented  a  livery  rig  and  drove  those  poor  kids 
eleven  miles  into  a  swamp.  If  you  have  ever 
seen  a  Louisiana  swamp  you  can  begin  laugh 
ing  now.  He  got  'em  planted  so  far  apart 
that  they  couldn't  do  much  talking,  explained 
all  about  the  peculiar  habits  of  the  sleepy  killy- 
loos,  saw  that  their  candles  were  burning  nicely 
and  then  went  away  to  herd  in  the  game.  He 
was  back  at  the  hotel  by  eleven  o'clock. 

About  midnight  the  boys  held  a  conference 
[219] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


and  decided  that  maybe  it  was  a  bad  time  of 
the  year  for  killyloo  birds  but  that  the  sucker 
crop  hadn't  been  cut  down  any.  They  started 
back  for  the  hotel  on  foot  and  got  lost  in  mud 
clear  up  to  their  necks.  They  stayed  in  the 
swamp  all  night  and  it's  a  wonder  that  they 
got  out  alive.  And  that  wasn't  all :  Uncle  Billy 
listened  to  their  tales  of  woe  and  said  if  they 
didn't  have  any  more  sense  than  that  they 
wouldn't  make  ballplayers,  so  he  sent  'em  home. 

The  night  before  we  were  to  leave  for  the 
North  there  was  a  little  informal  dance  at  the 
hotel  and  the  town  folks  came  in  to  meet  the 
ballplayers  and  learn  the  tango  and  the  hesita 
tion  waltz. 

It  was  a  perfectly  bully  party  and  everything 
went  along  fine  until  the  punch  was  brought 
in.  We'd  decided  not  to  have  any  liquor  in  it 
on  account  of  the  strong  prohibition  sentiment 
in  the  community,  so  we  had  a  kind  of  a  fruit 
lemonade  with  grape  juice  in  it. 

Well,  those  fat  old  ladies  crowded  round  the 
bowl  as  if  they  were  perishing  of  thirst.  They 
took  one  swig  of  the  punch  and  went  sailing 
for  the  elevators  like  full-rigged  ships  in  a  gale 
of  wind. 

Of  course  I  thought  I  knew  what  was  wrong. 
It's  always  considered  quite  a  joke  to  slip 
something  into  the  punch.  I'd  been  dancing 
with  a  swell  little  girl  and  as  we  started  for 
the  punch-bowl  I  said: 

"You  won't  mind  if  this  punch  has  got  a  wee 
bit  of  a  kick  in  it,  will  you ! ' ' 

[220] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


"Not  in  the  least,"  said  she.  "Father  al 
ways  puts  a  little  brandy  in  ours." 

So  that  was  all  right  and  I  ladled  her  out 
a  sample.  I  would  have  got  mine  at  the  same 
time,  but  an  old  lady  behind  me  started  to 
choke  and  I  turned  round  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  When  I  turned  back  to  the  girl  again 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  and  she  was 
sputtering  about  rowdy  ballplayers.  She 
said  that  she  had  a  brother  at  college  who 
could  lick  all  the  big-leaguers  in  the  world, 
and  she  hoped  he'd  begin  on  me.  Then  she 
went  out  of  the  room  with  her  nose  in  the 
air. 

I  was  terribly  upset  about  it  because  I 
couldn  't  think  what  I  had  done  that  was  wrong, 
and  just  because  I  had  the  glass  in  my  hand 
I  began  drinking  the  punch.  Then  I  went  out 
and  climbed  a  telegraph  pole  and  yelled  for  the 
fire  department.  Talk  about  going  crazy  with 
the  heat.  It  can  be  done,  believe  me!  I  felt 
like  a  general-alarm  fire  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening. 

There  was  an  awful  fuss  about  that,  and 
some  of  us  held  a  council  of  war.  We  decided 
to  put  it  up  to  O'Connor.  He  stood  pat  in  a 
very  dignified  way  and  said  that  he  must  posi 
tively  refuse  to  take  the  blame  for  anything 
unless  there  was  proof  that  he  did  it.  About 
that  time  the  cook  found  two  empty  tabasco- 
sauce  bottles  under  the  kitchen  sink.  That 
didn't  prove  anything.  We  already  knew  what 
the  stuff  was  and  that  too  much  of  it  had  been 

[221] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


used.  One  bottle  would  have  been  a  great 
plenty. 

That  was  the  situation  when  we  started 
North.  Everybody  felt  that  it  was  dangerous 
to  be  safe  with  a  physical  humourist  like 
O'Connor  on  the  payroll.  We  hoped  that 
he'd  quit  playing  horse  and  begin  to  play 
ball. 

We  went  so  far  as  to  hint  that  the  next  rough 
stuff  he  put  over  on  the  bunch  would  bring  him 
before  the  Kangaroo  Court  and  it  wouldn't 
make  any  difference  whether  we  had  any  evi 
dence  or  not.  The  Kangaroo  Court  is  the  last 
word  in  physical  humour.  It's  even  rougher 
than  taking  the  Imperial  Callithumpian  Degree 
in  the  Order  of  the  Ornery  and  Worthless  Men 
of  the  World. 

The  last  straw  fell  on  us  in  the  home  town. 
Jorgenson  came  into  the  dressing  room  one 
afternoon  with  a  handful  of  big  square  en 
velopes.  There  was  one  for  every  man  on 
the  team. 

I  opened  mine  and  there  was  a  stiff  sheet  of 
cardboard  inside  of  it  printed  in  script.  I 
didn't  save  mine,  but  it  read  something  like 
this: 

Mr.  Augustus  P.  Stringer  requests  the  hon 
our  of  your  company  at  dinner,  at  the  Algon 
quin  Club,  643  -  -  Avenue,  at  seven-thirty 
on  the  evening  of  May  the  Twelfth,  Nineteen 

Hundred  and  .     Formal. 

[222] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


Well,  there  was  quite  a  buzz  of  excitement 
over  it. 

"Who  is  this  Mr.  Stringer?"  asks  Uncle 
Billy.  "Any  of  you  boys  know  him?" 

Nobody  seemed  to,  but  that  wasn't  remark 
able.  All  sorts  of  people  give  dinners  to  ball 
players  during  the  playing  season.  I've  seen 
some  winters  when  a  good  feed  would  come 
in  handy,  but  a  ballplayer  is  only  strong  with 
the  public  between  April  and  October.  The 
rest  of  the  year  nobody  cares  very  much 
whether  he  eats  or  not. 

' '  He 's  probably  some  young  sport  who  wants 
to  show  us  a  good  time  and  brag  about  what 
a  whale  of  a  ballplayer  he  used  to  be  in  col 
lege,"  says  Pat  Dunphy. 

"You're  wrong!"  says  Peachy  Parsons. 
"Ten  to  one  you're  wrong!  I  never  saw  this 
Mr.  Stringer,  but  I'll  bet  I've  got  him  pegged 
to  a  whisper.  In  the  first  place  I  know  about 
this  Algonquin  Club.  It's  the  oldest  and  the 
most  exclusive  club  in  the  city.  Nothing  but 
rich  men  belong  to  it.  You  can  go  by  there 
any  night  and  see  'em  sitting  in  the  windows, 
holding  their  stomachs  in  their  laps.  Now  this 
Mr.  Stringer  is  probably  a  nice  old  man  with 
a  sneaking  liking  for  baseball.  He  wants  to 
entertain  us,  but  at  the  same  time  he's  afraid 
that  we're  a  lot  of  lowbrows  and  that  we'll 
show  him  up  before  the  other  club  members." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?"  asks  Dunphy. 

"Simple  enough.  He's  got  an  idea  that  we 
•don't  know  what  to  wear  to  a  banquet,  so  he 

[223] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


tips  us  off.  He  puts  'formal'  down  in  one 
corner. ' ' 

"What  does  that  mean!" 

"It's  not  usually  put  on  an  invitation.  It 
means  the  old  thirteen-and-the-odd.  Claw 
hammer,  white  tie,  silk  hat  and  all  the  rest 
of  it." 

"How  about  a  <tux'?" 

* '  Absolutely  barred.    A  tuxedo  isn  't  formal. ' ' 

"That  settles  it!"  says  Dunphy.  "I  don't 
go.  If  this  bird  don't  want  to  see  me  in  my 
street  clothes  he  don't  need  to  see  me  at  all. 
I  never  bought  one  of  those  beetle-backed  coats 
and  I  never  will!" 

"Come  now,"  says  Uncle  Billy,  "don't  get 
excited.  I  know  a  place  where  you  can  rent 
an  entire  outfit  for  two  bucks,  shoes  and 
all." 

"Oh,  well,"  says  Dunphy,  "in  that  case— 

The  more  we  talked  about  it,  the  stronger  we 
were  taken  with  the  idea.  It  would  be  some 
thing  to  say  that  we  'd  had  dinner  at  the  Algon 
quin  Club.  We  warned  Tom  O'Connor  that 
none  of  his  rough  comedy  would  go.  He  got 
awfully  sore  about  it.  One  word  led  to  an 
other  and  finally  he  said  if  we  felt  that  way 
about  it  he  wouldn't  go.  We  tried  to  persuade 
him  that  it  wasn't  quite  the  thing  to  turn  down 
an  invitation,  but  he  wouldn't  listen. 

You  never  saw  such  a  hustling  round  or  such 
a  run  on  the  gents'  furnishing  goods.  Every 
body  was  buying  white  shirts,  white  ties  and 
silk  socks.  If  we  were  going  to  do  it  at  all  we 

[224] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


felt  that  it  might  as  well  be  done  right,  and  of 
course  we  wanted  to  show  Mr.  Stringer  that 
we  knew  what  was  what.  Those  who  didn't 
own  evening  clothes  hired  'em  for  the  occasion, 
accordion  hats  and  all.  We  met  a  couple  of 
blocks  away  from  the  club  and  marched  over  in 
a  body  like  a  lot  of  honourary  pall-bearers. 

We  got  by  the  outer  door  all  right  and  into 
the  main  room  where  some  old  gentlemen  were 
sitting  round,  smoking  cigars  and  reading  the 
newspapers.  They  seemed  kind  of  annoyed 
about  something  and  looked  at  us  as  if  they 
took  us  for  burglars  in  disguise,  which  they 
probably  did.  Up  comes  a  flunky  in  uniform, 
knee-breeches  and  mutton-chop  whiskers.  Uncle 
Billy  did  the  talking  for  the  bunch. 

' '  Tell  Mr.  Stringer  that  we  're  here, ' '  says  he. 

"I — beg  your  pardon!"  says  the  flunky. 

"You  don't  need  to  do  that,"  says  Uncle 
Billy.  "Just  run  along  and  tell  Mr.  Stringer 
that  his  guests  are  here." 

The  flunky  seemed  puzzled  for  a  minute,  and 
then  he  almost  smiled. 

"Ah!"  says  he.  "The — Democratic  Club  is 
on  the  opposite  corner,  sir.  Possibly  there 
has  been  some  mistake." 

Uncle  Billy  began  to  get  sore.  He  flashed 
his  invitation  and  waved  it  under  the  flunky's 
nose. 

"It  says  here  the  Algonquin  Club.  You 
don't  look  it,  but  maybe  you  can  read." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  says  the  flunky.  He  exam 
ined  the  invitation  carefully  and  then  he  shook 

[225] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


his  head.  "Very,  very  sorry,  sir,"  says  he, 
"but  there  is  some  mistake." 

"How  can  there  be  any  mistake!"  roars 
Uncle  Billy.  "Where  is  Mr.  Stringer!" 

"That  is  what  I  do  not  know,  sir,"  says  the 
flunky.  "We  have  no  such  member,  sir." 

Well,  that  was  a  knock-out.  Even  Uncle 
Billy  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  that.  The 
rest  of  us  stood  round  on  one  foot  and  then  on 
the  other  like  a  lot  of  clothing-store  dummies. 
One  of  the  old  gentlemen  motioned  to  the 
flunky,  who  left  us,  but  not  without  looking 
back  every  few  seconds  as  if  he  expected  us 
to  start  something. 

"James,"  pipes  up  the  old  gentleman,  "per 
haps  they  have  been  drinking.  Have  you  tele 
phoned  for  the  police!" 

"They  don't  seem  to  be  violent  yet,  sir," 
says  James.  Then  he  came  back  to  us  and 
explained  again  that  he  was  very,  very  sorry, 
but  there  must  be  some  mistake.  No  Mr. 
Stringer  was  known  at  the  Algonquin  Club. 

"This  way  out,  gentlemen,"  says  James. 

I  think  I  was  the  first  one  that  tumbled  to  it. 
We  were  going  down  the  steps  when  it  struck 
me  like  a  thousand  of  brick. 

"Stringer!"  says  I.  "We've  been  strung 
all  right.  Tom  O'Connor  has  gone  back  to  the 
legitimate ! ' ' 

"No  wonder  he  didn't  want  to  come!"  says 
everybody  at  once. 

We  stood  on  the  corner  under  the  lamppost 
and  held  an  indignation  meeting,  the  old  gentle- 

[226] 


HIS    OWN    STUFF 


men  looking  down  at  us  from  the  windows  as 
if  they  couldn't  make  up  their  minds  whether 
we  were  dangerous  or  not.  We  hadn't  decided 
what  we  ought  to  do  with  Tom  when  the  re 
porters  began  to  arrive.  That  cinched  it. 
Every  paper  had  been  tipped  off  by  telephone 
that  there  was  a  good  josh  story  at  the  Algon 
quin  Club,  and  the  funny  men  had  been  turned 
loose  on  it.  Uncle  Billy  grabbed  me  by  the 
arm. 

"Tip  the  wink  to  Dunphy  and  Parsons  and 
let's  get  out  of  this,"  says  he.  "I  don't  often 
dude  myself  up  and  it  seems  a  shame  to  waste 
it.  We  will  have  dinner  at  the  Casino  and 
frame  up  a  come-back  on  O'Connor." 

I've  always  said  that,  in  spite  of  his  queer 
notions  about  certain  things,  Uncle  Billy  is  a 
regular  human  being.  The  dinner  that  he 
bought  us  that  night  proved  it,  and  the  idea 
that  he  got,  along  with  the  coffee,  made  it  even 
stronger. 

"Do  you  boys  know  any  actresses?"  said  he. 
"I  mean  any  that  are  working  in  town  now?" 

"I  know  Hazel  Harrington,"  says  Parsons. 

"Ah-hah,"  says  Uncle  Billy.  "That's  the 
pretty  one  in  Paris  Up  to  Date,  eh?"  Why, 
the  old  rascal  even  had  a  line  on  the  musical 
comedy  stars!  "Is  she  a  good  fellow?" 

"Best  in  the  world!"  says  Parsons.  "And 
a  strong  baseball  fan." 

"Fine!"  says  Uncle  Billy  and  he  snapped 
his  fingers  at  a  waiter.  "Pencil  and  paper  and 
messenger  boy — quick!  Now  then,  Peachy, 

[227] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


write  this  lady  a  note  and  say  that  we  will  be 
highly  honoured  if  she  will  join  us  here  after 
the  show  to  discuss  a  matter  of  grave  impor 
tance  to  the  Old  Guard.  Say  that  you  will  call 
in  a  taxi  to  get  her." 

When  the  note  had  gone  Uncle  Billy  lighted 
a  fresh  cigar  and  chuckled  to  himself. 

"If  she'll  go  through  with  it,"  says  he,  "I'll 
guarantee  to  knock  all  the  funny  business  out 
of  Tom  O'Connor  for  the  rest  of  his  natural 
life." 

Miss  Harrington  turned  up  about  eleven- 
thirty,  even  prettier  off  the  stage  than  on  it, 
which  is  going  some.  She  said  that  she  had 
side-stepped  a  date  with  a  Pittsburgh  million 
aire  because  we  were  real  people.  That  was 
a  promising  start.  She  ordered  a  light  supper 
of  creamed  lobster  and  champagne  and  then 
Uncle  Billy  began  to  talk. 

He  told  her  that  as  a  manager  he  was  in  a 
bad  fix.  He  said  he  had  a  new  man  on  the 
payroll  who  was  promoting  civil  war.  He  ex 
plained  that  unless  he  was  able  to  tame  this 
fellow  the  team  would  be  crippled.  Miss  Har 
rington  said  that  would  be  a  pity,  for  she  had 
bet  on  us  to  win  the  pennant.  She  wanted  to 
know  what  was  the  matter.  Uncle  Billy  told 
her  all  about  Tom  O'Connor  and  his  practical 
jokes.  Miss  Harrington  said  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  to  give  him  a  dose  of  his  own  medi 
cine.  It  was  like  Uncle  Billy  to  let  her  think 
that  the  idea  belonged  to  her. 

"Suppose,"  says  Uncle  Billy,  "you  should 
[228] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


get  a  note  from  him,  asking  you  to  meet  him 
at  the  stage  door  some  night  next  week.  For 
the  sake  of  the  ball  club,  would  you  say 
'Yes'!" 

"But — what  would  happen  after  that?" 
asked  Miss  Harrington.  "I  don't  know  the 
man  at  all  and— 

Uncle  Billy  told  her  what  would  happen  after 
that,  and  as  it  dawned  on  the  rest  of  us  we 
nearly  rolled  out  of  our  chairs.  Miss  Harring 
ton  laughed  too. 

1 '  It  wrould  be  terribly  funny, ' '  said  she,  * '  and 
I  suppose  it  would  serve  him  right;  but  it 
might  get  into  the  papers  and— 

Uncle  Billy  shook  his  head. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  says  he,  "the  only 
publicity  that  you  get  in  this  town  is  the  pub 
licity  that  you  go  after.  I  am  well  and  fa 
vourably  known  to  the  police.  A  lot  of  'em 
get  annual  passes  from  me.  Captain  Murray 
at  the  Montmorency  Street  Station  is  my  pal. 
He  can  see  a  joke  without  plans  and  specifica 
tions.  I  promise  you  that  the  whole  thing  will 
go  off  like  clockwork.  We'll  suppose  that  you 
have  attracted  the  young  man's  attention  dur 
ing  the  performance.  You  would  attract  any 
man's  attention,  my  dear." 

' '  I  would  stand  up  and  bow  for  that  compli 
ment,"  said  Miss  Harrington,  "but  the  waiter 
is  looking.  Go  on." 

"We  will  suppose  that  you  have  received  a 
note  from  him,"  said  Uncle  Billy.  "He  is  to 
meet  you  at  the  stage  door.  .  .  .  One  tiny 

[229] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


little  scream — just  one.  .  .  .  Would  you  do 
that— for  the  sake  of  the  ball  club!"  ' 

Miss  Harrington  giggled. 

"If  you're  sure  that  you  can  keep  me  out 
of  it,"  said  she,  "I'll  do  it  for  the  sake  of  the 
joke!" 

Uncle  Billy  was  a  busy  man  for  a  few  days, 
but  he  found  time  to  state  that  he  didn't  be 
lieve  that  Tom  O'Connor  had  anything  to  do 
with  the  Algonquin  Club  thing.  He  said  it  was 
so  clever  that  Tom  couldn't  have  thought  of  it, 
and  he  said  it  in  the  dressing  room  so  loud  that 
everybody  heard  him.  Maybe  that  was  the 
reason  why  Tom  didn't  suspect  anything  when 
he  was  asked  to  fill  out  a  box  party. 

Pat  Dunphy,  Peachy  Parsons  and  some  of 
the  rest  of  us  were  in  on  the  box  party,  playing 
thinking  parts  mostly.  Uncle  Billy  and  Tom 
O'Connor  had  the  front  seats  right  up  against 
the  stage. 

Miss  Harrington  was  immense.  If  she'd  had 
forty  rehearsals  she  couldn't  have  done  it  any 
better.  Before  she'd  been  on  the  stage  three 
minutes  Tom  was  fumbling  round  for  his  pro 
gramme  trying  to  find  her  name.  Pretty  soon 
he  began  to  squirm  in  his  chair. 

"By  golly,  that  girl  is  looking  at  me  all  the 
time!"  says  he. 

"Don't  kid  yourself!"  said  Uncle  Billy. 

"But  I  tell  you  she  is!  There — did  you  see 
that?" 

"Maybe  she  wants  to  meet  you,"  says  Uncle 
[230] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


Billy.  "I've  seen  her  at  the  ball  park  a  lot 
of  times." 

"You  think  she  knows  who  I  am!"  asks  Tom. 

"Shouldn't  wonder.  You're  right,  Tom. 
She's  after  you,  that's  a  fact." 

"Oh,  rats!"  says  O'Connor.  "Maybe  I  just 
think  so.  No,  there  it  is  again!  Do  you  sup 
pose,  if  I  sent  my  card  back— 

"I'm  a  married  man,"  says  Uncle  Billy.  "I 
don't  suppose  anything.  But  if  a  girl  as  pretty 
as  that—  -" 

Tom  went  out  at  the  end  of  the  first  act.  I 
saw  him  write  something  on  a  card  and  slip  it 
to  an  usher  along  with  a  dollar  bill. 

When  the  second  act  opened  Tom  was  so 
nervous  he  couldn't  sit  still.  It  was  easy  to 
see  that  he  hadn't  received  any  answer  to  his 
note  and  was  worrying  about  it.  Pretty  soon 
Miss  Harrington  came  on  to  sing  her  song 
about  the  moon — they've  always  got  to  have  a 
moon  song  in  musical  comedy  or  it  doesn't  go 
— and  just  as  the  lights  went  down  she  looked 
over  toward  our  box  and  smiled,  the  least  little 
bit  of  a  smile,  and  then  she  nodded  her  head. 
The  breath  went  out  of  Tom  0  'Connor  in  a  long 
sigh. 

"Somebody  lend  me  twenty  dollars,"  says 
he. 

"I'm  going  to  meet  her  at  the  stage  door 
after  the  show,"  says  Tom,  "and  she  won't 
think  I'm  a  sport  unless  I  open  wine." 

Well,   he   met   her   all    right    enough.     The 
[231] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


whole  bunch  of  us  can  swear  to  that  because 
we  were  across  the  street,  hiding  in  a  doorway. 
When  she  came  out  Tom  stepped  up,  chipper 
as  a  canary  bird,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  We 
couldn't  hear  what  he  said,  but  there  was  no 
trouble  in  hearing  Miss  Harrington. 

"How  dare  you,  sir!"  she  screams.  "Help! 
Police!  Help!" 

Two  men,  who  had  been  loafing  round  on 
the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  jumped  over  and 
grabbed  Tom  by  the  arms.  He  started  in  to 
explain  matters  to  'em,  but  the  men  dragged 
him  away  down  the  street  and  Miss  Harring 
ton  went  in  the  other  direction. 

"So  far,  so  good,"  says  Uncle  Billy.  "Gen 
tlemen,  the  rest  of  the  comedy  will  be  played 
out  at  the  Montmorency  Street  Police  Station. 
Reserved  seats  are  waiting  for  us.  Follow 
me." 

You  can  say  anything  you  like,  but  it's  a 
pretty  fine  thing  to  be  in  right  with  the  police. 
You  never  know  when  you  may  need  'em,  and 
Uncle  Billy  certainly  was  an  ace  at  the  Mont 
morency  Street  Station.  We  went  in  by  the 
side  door  and  were  shown  into  a  little  narrow 
room  with  a  lot  of  chairs  in  it,  just  like  a  mov 
ing-picture  theatre,  except  that  instead  of  a 
curtain  at  the  far  end  there  was  a  tall  Japan 
ese  screen.  What  was  more,  most  of  the  chairs 
were  occupied.  Every  member  of  the  Old 
Guard  ball  club  was  there,  and  so  was  Al  Jor- 
genson  and  Lije,  the  rubber. 

"Boys,"  says  Uncle  Billy,  "we  are  about  to 
[232] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


have  the  last  act  of  the  thrilling  drama  entitled 
The  Kidder  Kidded,  or  The  Old  Guard's  Re 
venge.  The  first  and  second  acts  went  off  fine. 
Be  as  quiet  as  you  can  and  don't  laugh  until 
the  blow-off.  Not  a  whisper — not  a  sound — 
s-s-sh!  They're  bringing  him  in  now!" 

There  was  a  scuffling  of  feet  and  a  scraping 
of  chair-legs  on  the  other  side  of  the  screen. 
We  couldn't  see  O'Connor  and  he  couldn't  see 
us,  but  we  could  hear  every  word  he  said.  He 
was  still  trying  to  explain  matters. 

"But  I  tell  you,"  says  Tom,  "I  had  a  date 
with  her." 

"Yeh,"  says  a  gruff  voice,  "she  acted  like 
it!  Don't  tell  us  your  troubles.  Tell  'em  to 
Captain  Murray.  Here  he  comes  now." 

A  door  opened  and  closed  and  another  voice 
cut  in: 

"Well,  boys,  what  luck?" 

"We  got  one,  cap,"  says  the  gruff  party. 
"Caught  him  with  the  goods  on " 

"It's  all  a  mistake,  sir — captain!"  Tom 
breaks  in.  "I  give  you  my  word  of  honour 
as  a  gentleman— 

"Shut  up!"  says  Captain  Murray.  "Your 
word  of  honour  as  a  gentleman!  That's  rich, 
that  is !  You  keep  your  trap  closed  for  the 
present — understand!  Now,  boys,  where  did 
you  get  him?" 

"At  the  stage  door  of  the  Royal  Theatre," 
says  the  plain-clothes  man,  who  did  the  talking 
for  the  two  who  made  the  pinch.  "Duffy  and 
me,  we  saw  this  bird  kind  of  slinking  round, 

[233] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


and  we  remembered  that  order  about  bringing 
in  all  mashers,  so  we  watched  him.  A  girl 
came  out  of  the  stage  door  and  he  braced  her. 
She  hollered  for  help  and  we  grabbed  him. 
Oh,  there  ain't  any  question  about  it,  cap; 
we've  got  him  dead  to  rights.  We  don't  even 
need  the  woman's  testimony." 

"Good  work,  boys!"  says  the  captain. 
"We'll  make  an  example  of  this  guy!" 

"Captain,"  says  Tom,  "listen  to  reason!  I 
tell  you  this  girl  was  flirting  with  me  all 
through  the  show 

"That's  what  they  all  say!  If  she  was  flirt 
ing  with  you,  why  did  she  make  a  holler  when 
you  braced  her?" 

"I — I  don't  know,"  says  Tom.  "Maybe  she 
didn't  recognise  me." 

"No,  I'll  bet  she  didn't!" 

"But,  captain,  I  sent  her  my  card  and  she 
sent  back  word— 

"Oh,  shut  up!  What's  your  name?"  Mur 
ray  shot  that  one  at  him  quick  and  Tom  took 
a  good  long  time  to  answer  it. 

"Smith,"  says  he  at  last.  "John  Smith." 
That  raised  a  laugh  on  the  other  side  of  the 
screen. 

"Well,"  says  the  captain,  "unless  we  can 
get  him  identified  he  can  do  his  bit  on  the  rock 
pile  under  the  name  of  Smith  as  well  as  any 
other,  eh,  boys?" 

"Sure  thing!"  said  the  plain-clothes  men. 

"The  rock  pile!"  says  Tom. 

"That's  what  I  said — rock  pile!  Kind  of 
[234] 


HIS    OWN    STUFF 


scares  you,  don't  it?  There  won't  be  any  bail 
for  you  to  jump  or  any  fine  for  you  to  pay. 
We've  had  a  lot  of  complaints  about  mashers 
lately  and  some  squeals  in  the  newspapers. 
You'll  be  made  an  example  of.  Chickens  are 
protected  by  the  game  laws  of  this  state,  and 
it's  time  some  of  the  lady-killers  found  it  out." 

Tom  began  to  plead,  but  he  might  just  as 
well  have  kept  quiet.  They  whirled  in  and 
gave  him  the  third  degree — asked  him  what  he 
had  been  pinched  for  the  last  time  and  a  whole 
lot  of  stuff.  We  expected  he'd  tell  his  name 
and  send  for  Uncle  Billy  to  get  him  out,  but 
for  some  reason  or  other  he  fought  shy  of  that. 
We  couldn't  understand  his  play  at  first,  but 
we  knew  why  soon  enough.  The  door  back  of 
the  screen  opened  again. 

"Cap'n,"  says  a  strange  voice,  " there's 
some  newspaper  men  here." 

Well,  that  was  all  a  stall,  of  course.  We 
didn't  let  the  newspaper  men  in  on  it  because 
we  wanted  them  for  a  whip  to  hold  over  Tom's 
head  in  the  future. 

"What  do  they  want?"  asks  Murray. 

"They're  after  this  masher  story,"  says  the 
stranger.  "I  don't  know  who  tipped  it  off  to 
'em,  but  they've  seen  the  woman  and  got  a 
statement  from  her.  She  says  she  thinks  this 
fellow  is  a  baseball  player." 

"I  wouldn't  care  if  he  was  the  president  of 
the  League!"  says  the  captain.  "You  know 
the  orders  we  got  to  break  up  mashing  and 
bring  'em  in,  no  matter  who  they  are.  Here 

[235] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


we've  got  one  of  'em  dead  to  rights;  and  it's 
the  rock  pile  for  him,  you  can  bet  your  life 
on  it!" 

"And  serve  him  right,"  says  the  stranger. 
"But,  cap'n,  wouldn't  it  be  a  good  thing  to 
identify  him?  These  newspapermen  say  they 
know  all  the  ballplayers.  Shall  we  have  'em 
in  to  give  him  the  once-over?" 

"I'll  send  for  'em  in  a  minute,"  says 
Murray. 

That  was  the  shot  that  brought  Tom  off  his 
perch  with  a  yell. 

"Captain,"  he  begs,  "anything  but  that! 
I'd  rather  you  sent  me  up  for  six  months — yes, 
or  shot  me!  If  this  gets  into  the  papers 
it'll—  -!  Oh,  say,  if  you  have  any  heart  at 
all — please — please Oh,  you  don't  under 
stand!" 

We  didn't  understand  either,  but  Tom  made 
it  plain.  I'm  not  going  to  write  all  he  said; 
it  made  my  face  burn  to  sit  there  and  listen  to 
it.  It  took  all  the  fun  out  of  the  joke  for  me. 
It  seems  that  this  rough  kidder — this  practical 
joker  who  never  cared  a  rap  how  much  he  hurt 
anybody  else's  feelings — had  some  pretty  ten 
der  feelings  of  his  own.  He  opened  up  his 
heart  and  told  that  police  captain  something 
that  he  never  had  told  us — told  him  about  the 
little  girl  back  in  the  home  town  who  was  wait 
ing  for  him,  and  how  she  wouldn't  ever  be  able 
to  hold  up  her  head  again  if  the  story  got  into 
the  papers  and  he  was  disgraced. 

"It  ain't  for  me,  captain,"  he  begs;  "it's  for 
[236] 


HIS   OWN    STUFF 


her.  You  wouldn't  want  her  shamed  just  be 
cause  I've  acted  like  a  fool,  would  you?  Think 
what  it  means  to  the  girl,  captain!  Oh,  if 
there's  anything  you  can  do 

Uncle  Billy  beat  me  to  it.  I  was  already  on 
my  feet  when  he  took  two  jumps  and  knocked 
the  screen  flat  on  the  floor. 

" That's  enough!"  says  Uncle  Billy.  We 
had  planned  to  give  Tom  the  horse-laugh  when 
the  screen  came  down,  but  somehow  none  of  us 
could  laugh  just  then.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old 
as  Hans  Wagner  I'll  never  forget  the  ex 
pression  on  Tom  O'Connor's  face  as  he  blinked 
across  the  room  and  saw  us  all  sitting  there, 
like  an  audience  in  a  theatre. 

"Tom,"  says  Uncle  Billy,  "I'm  sorry,  but 
this  is  what  always  happens  with  a  practical 
joke.  It  starts  out  to  be  funny,  but  it  gets 
away  from  you  and  then  the  first  thing  you 
know  somebody  is  hurt.  You've  had  a  lot  of 
fun  with  this  ball  club,  my  boy,  and  some  of  it 
was  pretty  rough  fun,  but — I  guess  we'll  all 
agree  to  call  it  square." 

Tom  got  on  his  feet,  shaking  a  little  and 
white  to  the  lips.  He  couldn't  seem  to  find  his 
voice  for  a  minute  and  he  ran  his  fingers  across 
his  mouth  before  he  spoke. 

"Is — is  this  a  joke?"  says  he. 

"It  started  out  to  be,"  says  Uncle  Billy. 
"I'm  sorry." 

Tom  didn't  say  another  word  and  he  didn't 
look  at  any  of  us.  He  went  out  of  the  room 
alone  and  left  us  there.  I  wanted  to  go  after 

[237] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


him  and  tell  him  not  to  take  it  so  hard;  but  I 
thought  of  the  way  he  had  shamed  Al  Jorgen- 
son,  I  thought  of  the  girl  who  wouldn't  even 
speak  to  Holliday  again,  I  thought  of  the  four 
kids  who  went  home  broken-hearted,  all  on 
Tom's  account — and  I  changed  my  mind.  It 
was  a  bitter  dose,  but  I  decided  not  to  sweeten 
it  any  for  him. 

Tom  O'Connor  isn't  funny  any  more,  and  I 
think  he  is  slowly  making  up  his  mind  that 
we're  not  such  a  bad  outfit  after  all.  To  this 
day  the  mention  of  the  name  of  Smith  makes 
him  blush,  so  I  guess  that  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  he 's  never  opened  his  mouth  about  it  since, 
he  hasn't  forgotten  what  his  own  stuff  feels 
like. 


[238] 


EXCESS  BAGGAGE 


I  NEVER  even  knew  that  Chick  Dorsey  had 
a  sister-in-law  until  just  before  we  left  for 
the  last  Western  trip. 

"Chief,"  he  says,  "my  wife's  sister  has 
wished  herself  on  to  me  for  a  while  and  I  can't 
do  a  thing  about  it.  She  has  got  some  sort  of 
a  bug  about  seeing  America  first,  whatever  that 
means,  and  she  thinks  that  travelling  with  a 
ball  club  would  help.  How  about  it?  Can  she 
make  the  Western  trip  with  us?" 
"Why,  sure!" 

That  was  what  I  said.  Any  manager  would 
have  done  the  same.  An  ounce  of  prevention 
is  worth  a  ton  of  argument  in  the  clubhouse 
afterward.  A  stitch  in  time  sews  up  the  game. 
Look  before  you  leap  and  then  use  the  hook 
slide.  Those  are  proverbs  and  supposed  to  be 
full  of  wisdom.  A  post-mortem  is  full  of  wis 
dom  too ;  but  the  patient  is  always  dead  by  that 
time. 

It's  my  bet  that  proverbs  were  invented  by 
some  charley-horsed  old  infielder  who  couldn't 
play  the  game  any  more  himself,  but  sat  round 
back  of  third  base  telling  the  boys  what  they 
should  have  done.  Any  fool  can  do  that  if  he 
[239] 


SCORE   BY    INNINGS 


waits  long  enough  for  the  returns  to  come  in. 
Proverbs  may  be  all  right;  but  what  I  claim 
is  that  there  ain't  ever  any  real  news  in  'em — 
at  least  nothing  that  you  didn't  know  before  or 
couldn't  have  guessed  if  you  had  only  taken 
time  to  study  the  proposition.  I  answered  right 
off  the  bat. 

1  'Why,  sure!" — just  like  that. 

I'm  not  trying  to  alibi  myself  before  we  start, 
but  it  ought  to  be  understood  that  I  draw  my 
pay  check  for  managing  a  ball  club.  I  dare  any 
body  to  find  a  line  in  my  contract  that  says  I 
have  to  be  a  fortune  teller  on  the  side ! 

And  here's  another  point:  All  the  women 
that  ever  travelled  with  the  club  before  Chick's 
sister-in-law  came  along  were  married  and  sort 
of  partial  to  their  husbands — not  that  I'm 
prejudiced  against  women.  I  like  'em  fine  and 
always  did — especially  when  they're  married  to 
some  one  else  and  reconciled  to  it.  I  never  took 
a  chance  in  the  Big  Lottery  myself,  but  mar 
riage  as  an  institution  for  other  folks  is  all 
right.  I'm  a  strong  booster  for  it. 

Speaking  as  the  skipper  of  a  ball  club,  I'd 
rather  have  married  players  than  single  ones, 
provided  they've  got  over  the  googoo  stage  and 
don't  hold  hands  in  public.  I  like  to  have  the 
boys  take  their  wives  with  'em  on  the  road,  be 
cause  having  the  womenfolks  along  saves  me  a 
lot  of  sleep  that  otherwise  I  wouldn't  get. 

You  may  not  know  it,  but  when  a  team  is 
travelling  the  manager  has  to  be  a  sort  of  a 
cross  between  a  night  watchman  and  a  house 
[240] 


EXCESS    BAGGAGE 


detective.  Ballplayers  are  mostly  young  and 
full  of  life  and  devilment;  and  if  the  manager 
doesn't  watch  'em  close  they'll  be  doing  their 
playing  on  a  green  table  and  their  sleeping  on 
the  bases.  I'm  no  fussy  old  hen,  but  I  do  like 
to  know  what  time  the  boys  turn  in  at  night  and 
how  much  table-stakes  poker  is  being  pulled  off 
with  blankets  over  the  transoms  and  the  kind 
of  chips  that  don't  make  any  noise. 

It  was  different  when  I  broke  into  the  Big 
League.  In  those  days  every  club  was  a  joy 
club  and  a  keg  of  beer  after  the  game  was  the 
usual  thing.  Sometimes  we  had  one  before. 
The  pace  is  faster  now;  there's  more  competi 
tion  and  more  new  blood,  and  the  man  who 
won't  take  reasonable  care  of  himself  goes  back 
to  the  minors. 

Getting  back  to  the  woman  question — you 
can  see  that  having  them  along  divides  up  the 
detective  work  and  helps  to  keep  the  men  in 
line.  I  know  some  ballplayers  who  don't  care 
a  hoot  for  Ban  Johnson  or  the  National  Com- 
mish;  but  they  wouldn't  presume  to  talk  back 
to  their  wives.  You  bet  matrimony  is  a  good 
thing! 

I  can  see  now  that  I  should  have  done  some 
thinking  when  Chick  put  the  proposition  up  to 
me;  but,  even  if  I  had,  I  don't  know  that  it 
would  have  made  any  difference.  She  was  Mrs. 
Dorsey's  sister,  and  Chick's  wife  is  a  quiet 
little  soul  with  spectacles  and  freckles.  Her 
idea  of  a  pleasant  afternoon  is  to  get  a  lapful 
of  Chick's  socks  and  darn  'em.  You  naturally 

[241] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


expect  sisters  to  have  some  sort  of  a  family 
resemblance,  don't  you? 

There's  one  fine  thing  about  marriage — the 
law  ties  a  woman  up  so  that  she  can  only  in 
fluence  one  man  at  a  time.  An  unmarried 
woman  ain't  limited  by  the  law  or  anything 
else.  She  scatters  her  hits  all  over  the  field 
and  you  never  know  where  to  play  for  her  or 
whether  to  play  for  her  at  all. 

Somebody  ought  to  turn  that  into  a  proverb. 

When  we  packed  up  for  that  last  Western 
trip  we  were  as  full  of  brotherly  love  as  a 
campmeeting.  A  ball  club  is  like  a  big  family, 
and  if  it's  a  happy  family  so  much  the  better 
for  everybody;  because  when  a  family  starts 
to  scrapping  internally  a  common  ordinary  bat 
tle  among  strangers  ain't  to  be  compared  with 
it  for  meanness.  And  for  a  real  rough-and- 
tumble — slaughter-house  rules  and  no  holds 
barred — set  a  pair  of  brothers  to  mixing  it. 
They  don't  seem  to  care  what  they  do  to  each 
other — and  that  comes  from  being  too  well 
acquainted. 

Men  who  eat  and  work  and  travel  in  the 
same  Pullman  car  for  a  few  seasons  usually 
wind  up  liking  each  other  a  whole  lot  or  not 
at  all.  As  a  general  proposition  it  isn't  best 
to  get  too  intimate  with  a  man  if  you  want  to 
think  well  of  him;  but  I've  got  a  Golden  Rule 
that  I  hammer  into  the  recruits  as  fast  as  they 
join — and  it  works  too :  "You  keep  off  the  other 
fellow's  corns  and  he'll  leave  yours  alone!" 

[242] 


EXCESS    BAGGAGE 


Any  chump  can  find  a  man's  sore  spots.  Know 
ing  that  they're  there  and  then  keeping  off  of 
'em — that's  the  true  secret  of  friendship. 

Well,  as  I  said,  we  packed  up,  happy  as  a 
lot  of  canary  birds.  We  had  good  reason  to 
be.  For  the  first  time  in  several  seasons  it 
looked  like  our  year  to  win.  We  had  only  to 
hold  our  lead  to  split  up  that  nice  fat  World's 
Series  check.  For  two  seasons  we  had  finished 
in  third  place,  behind  the  Blues  and  the  Pink 
Sox.  The  other  teams  hadn't  been  able  to 
trouble  us  much;  but  the  Blue  and  the  Pinks 
had  a  trifle  too  much  class  for  us — luck,  we 
called  it  at  the  time ;  but  it  was  really  class. 

This  season  the  Blue  pitching  staff  was  in  a 
bad  way  with  sore  arms,  and  the  Pink  infield 
was  shot  as  full  of  holes  as  a  Swiss  cheese,  in 
addition  to  the  team  being  shy  a  first-string 
catcher.  A  ball  club  is  like  a  machine — it  will 
run  at  top  speed  for  just  about  so  long  and 
then  the  parts  wear  out  and  have  to  be  replaced. 
The  Pinks  and  the  Blues  were  veteran  outfits, 
overdue  for  a  slump.  They  began  to  slip  in 
June,  we  caught  them  in  July,  and  by  the  end 
of  August  we  had  what  looked  like  a  safe  lead. 
The  boys  had  even  been  pricing  runabouts. 
They  didn't  even  knock  wood  when  they  did 
it,  either,  which  shows  how  sure  they  felt  of 
that  World's  Series  money. 

We  left  for  the  West  on  a  night  train.  I 
stayed  at  the  gate  until  most  of  the  boys  got 
aboard,  and  when  I  hoisted  myself  into  the 
Pullman  there  was  a  poker  party  in  one  cor- 

[243] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


ner,  a  crap  game  going  in  the  smoking  com 
partment,  and  the  married  men  were  playing 
bridge  with  their  wives.  It  had  all  the  ear 
marks  of  a  pleasant  evening. 

I  looked  in  at  the  smoking  compartment  to 
make  sure  that  the  boys  weren't  rolling  the 
bones  too  high.  You  can  set  a  limit  on  a  poker 
game,  but  craps  is  liable  to  get  away  from  you. 

Fatty  Cutts,  the  catcher,  was  wedged  into  the 
corner  seat,  where  he  could  see  out.  " Hello," 
says  he.  "As  I  live,  here  comes  Chick  and  Mrs. 
Chick — and  a  chicken." 

"Whadd'ye  mean — a  chicken?"  asks  Billy 
Eunkle,  climbing  all  over  the  bunch  to  get  a 
peek  outside.  "You're  no  judge  of  poultry, 
you  big,  fat  dub !  That  ain't  no  chicken — that's 
a  bird!" 

"A  bird  of  paradise!"  says  Artie  MacVicar, 
the  right  fielder,  with  his  nose  flattened  against 
the  glass.  "And  what's  more  she's  going  to 
fly  with  us.  The  porter  is  helping  her  into  this 
car." 

"No  such  luck!"  says  Billy  Eunkle. 

Well,  you  know,  until  then  Chick's  sister-in- 
law  had  completely  slipped  my  mind.  I  hadn't 
given  her  a  thought. 

"That's  Mrs.  Dorsey's  sister,"  I  says. 
"She's  going  to  make  the  Western  trip  with 
the  club." 

Fatty  Cutts  got  up  and  threw  his  cigar  away. 
"Let  me  out  of  here!"  he  said.  "The  air  is 


frightful!" 

"Anybody  who  wants  my  seat  can  have  it," 
[244] 


EXCESS    BAGGAGE 


says  Artie  MacVicar,  pulling  down  his  sleeves 
so  that  his  diamond  cuff  buttons  would  show. 

"This  game  is  only  fit  for  stable  hands  any 
way,  ' '  says  Billy  Runkle,  and  out  he  went  after 
the  other  two. 

"That's  right!"  growls  Sam  Horgan,  who 
was  down  on  the  floor  with  the  dice.  "Quit 
while  you're  ahead,  you  cheap  skates!  Any 
more  ladykillers  in  the  party?  .  .  .  All  right! 
Get  your  dough  down.  I'm  coming  out  again." 

Naturally  I  wanted  to  see  the  cause  of  all 
this  excitement.  The  first  thing  I  noticed  was 
that  the  poker  game  had  struck  a  snag.  The 
hands  were  lying  dead  on  the  table;  two  or 
three  of  the  boys  were  looking  down  the  aisle 
and  the  others  had  their  heads  together. 

"Say,  chief,  for  Heaven's  sake  who  is  she?" 
Four  of  'em  asked  me  the  same  question. 

"She — who!"  I  wanted  to  hear  what  they'd 
say. 

"Why,  the  queen  with  Chick  and  his  wife," 
says  Ben  Maddox,  the  first  baseman.  "Haven't 
you  seen  her?" 

I  shook  my  head.  I'd  only  seen  the  top  of 
her  hat. 

"Well,"  says  Ben,  "slip  down  to  the  other 
end  of  the  car  and  give  your  eyes  a  treatment. 
The  idea  of  a  beautiful  doll  like  that  being  seen 
with  a  lop-eared,  sawed-off  married  man  like 
Chick  Dorsey!" 

"Easy!  Easy!"  I  says.  "That  ain't  no 
doll;  that's  Chick's  sister-in-law." 

Ben  pushed  his  stack  across  to  Wheatley0 
[245] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


who  was  banking.  "Here,  Sliver,"  he  says, 
"cash  me  in!" 

"And  me!"  says  George  Steck. 

"I'll  cash  myself  in  first,"  says  Sliver. 

This  is  the  place  where  I  ought  to  hunt  up 
a  dictionary  and  smoke  out  words  enough  to 
tell  you  what  that  girl  looked  like.  I  ought  to, 
but  I  won't.  It  couldn't  be  done — not  even  by 
the  man  who  invented  language.  I  can  only 
give  you  a  few  specifications  to  work  on:  She 
was  tall,  with  yellow  hair  and  blue  eyes — the 
sort  of  a  blonde  that  can  make  a  man  forget 
that  he's  always  been  partial  to  small  brunettes. 
As  for  the  rest  of  it,  write  your  own  ticket ;  you 
can't  go  too  far.  Eemember  what  she  did  to 
the  poker  and  crap  games — some  of  'em  losers 
at  that ! 

Irma  Lacey — that  was  her  name.  Chick  in 
troduced  her  to  everybody  as  fast  as  he  could 
get  round  to  it,  and  before  the  train  was  out 
of  the  railroad  yards  there  was  a  mass  meet 
ing  at  her  end  of  the  car.  Fatty  Cutts — he  al 
ways  did  have  the  nerve  of  a  burglar — was 
planted  in  the  seat  beside  her  and  a  derrick 
wouldn't  have  budged  him.  Artie  Mac  Vicar 
was  sitting  opposite,  with  Mrs.  Dorsey,  talking 
a  blue  streak.  Maddox,  Steck  and  Eunkle  were 
hanging  over  from  the  section  behind.  Ed  Kil 
mer,  Butch  Willard  and  Mike  Green  had  the 
section  in  front.  Sliver  Wheatley  had  the  aisle 
completely  blocked  with  his  long  legs  and  the 
others  were  as  close  as  they  could  get. 

It  was  Miss  Lacey  this  and  Miss  Lacey  that 
[246] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


all  over  the  place,  and  she  was  right  there  with 
the  smile  and  the  quick  comeback  for  every 
thing.  And  her  laugh !  That  girl  could  wrinkle 
up  her  nose  and  shut  her  eyes  and  make  a  noise 
that  would  convince  any  man  that  he  was  a 
born  comedian.  She  sprang  it  once  on  Fatty 
Cutts  and  he  immediately  started  to  tell  her 
all  his  stale  old  minstrel  jokes  that  we've  lis 
tened  to  for  years.  He'd  have  fed  her  the 
entire  monologue  if  we  hadn't  choked  him  off. 

"Do  you  know,"  says  she,  "I'm  ashamed  to 
confess  it  in  such  company,  but  really  I  don't 
understand  the  first  thing  about  baseball! 
Shocking,  isn't  it!  But  I  think  I  can  learn. 
You'll  all  be  patient  and  teach  me,  won't  you?'* 

Well,  you  should  have  heard  the  chorus! 
About  a  dozen  spoke  for  the  job. 

"I  am  one  of  the  best  little  teachers  in  the 
world,"  said  Fatty  Cutts.  "If  there  is  any 
thing  you  want  to  know,  Miss  Lacey— 

"Huh!"  says  Artie  MacVicar.  "Tell  her 
about  the  time  you  thought  there  were  three 
out  and  threw  the  ball  away." 

"Yes,  please  do!"  says  the  girl. 

Now  if  there  is  anything  that  will  get  a  rise 
out  of  Fatty  it's  mention  of  that  incident.  I've 
seen  Cutts  climb  into  the  grandstand  after  a 
fan  for  just  yelling:  "Oh,  Fat!  How  many 
out?"  Everybody  makes  at  least  one  frightful 
bone  play  that  he  hates  to  have  thrown  up  to 
him  and  this  one  was  Cutts'  prize  bloomer.  He 
looked  at  MacVicar  a  long  time,  and  I  could  see 
his  neck  swelling  and  his  wattles  turning  pink. 

[247] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


"Oh,  all  right!"  he  says  at  last  in  a  kind  of 
a  sneering  tone.  "I'm  game!  I'll  tell  it  if 
little  Arthur  here  will  tell  about  the  time  he 
started  in  to  chase  the  bush-league  umpire  off 
the  field  and  found  out  afterward  that  he 
was  the  amateur  middle-weight  champion  of 
Texas." 

"Oh,  how  interesting!"  says  Miss  Lacey. 
"And  did  you  chase  the  man,  Mr.  MacVicarf " 

Everybody  laughed  and  Artie  began  to  splut 
ter  like  a  man  usually  does  when  he  has  his 
own  medicine  handed  back  to  him;  for  nobody 
takes  a  kidding  harder  than  a  kidder.  There 
was  the  makings  of  a  fine  little  fuss  when  Sliver 
Wheatley  cut  in.  Sliver  has  a  good  head  on  his 
shoulders  and  sometimes  he  uses  it. 

"It's  a  lovely  evening,  Miss  Lacey,"  says 
he.  "Suppose  we  go  out  on  the  observation 
platform  for  a  while?" 

Miss  Lacey  said  she  would  be  delighted  and 
there  was  a  stampede  for  the  tail  end  of  the 
train.  In  half  a  minute  the  car  was  all  but 
deserted,  except  for  the  married  people  and  the 
crap  shooters.  Mrs.  Dorsey  went  along  with 
the  bunch — as  a  chaperon,  I  guess. 

I  drifted  out  that  way  myself  along  about 
ten  o'clock — and  what  do  you  think  they  were 
doing?  Singing,  every  last  one  of  'em!  And 
Sweet  Adeline  at  that!  They  were  piled  up 
round  that  girl  three  deep,  with  the  overflow 
roosting  on  the  guardrail.  The  barber-shop 
minors  sort  of  disgusted  me  and  I  went  back  to 
the  car. 

[248] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


Bob  Aiken's  wife  stopped  me  in  the  aisle. 

1  'I  see  you're  carrying  some  excess  baggage 
this  trip,"  says  she.  Somehow  a  woman  seems 
to  think  that  she  can  take  the  curse  off  a  mean 
remark  by  smiling  when  she  makes  it.  A  man 
crosses  his  fingers,  but  a  woman  smiles. 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "I  don't  know  as  I  would  put 
the  accent  on  the  baggage." 

"Did  I?"  says  she.  "Well,  maybe  I  should 
have  said  perishable  freight." 

"Maybe  so;  but  quite  a  looker!" 

I  couldn't  help  shooting  that  one  at  her.  She 
had  a  face  that  wouldn't  get  her  much  in  a 
beauty  show. 

"Ye-es" — like  it  hurt  her  to  admit  it — "but 
only  in  a  stagy  sort  of  way.  You  look  out, 
chief!  There's  such  a  thing  as  a  girl's  being 
too  popular." 

"That's  right!"  I  says.  "Better  keep  an 
eye  on  Bob!  He's  out  there  singing  second 
tenor." 

* '  You  keep  an  eye  on  your  ball  club ! ' ' 

And  this  time  she  forgot  to  smile.  So  did  I — 
later. 

The  next  morning  the  men's  dressing  room 
was  all  cluttered  up  with  conversation,  clean 
shirts,  safety  razors  and  talcum  powder.  I 
never  saw  such  a  wholesale  dolling-up  in  my 
life.  Artie  MacVicar  had  his  clothes  pressed 
over  night  and  spent  half  an  hour  warming  up 
his  entire  string  of  neckties  before  he  found 
one  that  suited  him.  All  the  diamond  stickpins 
were  fished  out  of  the  pocketbooks — every  big 

[249] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


leaguer  has  got  at  least  one  of  those  things— 
and  Sliver  Wheatley  put  on  both  his  rings. 
Maddox  and  Runkle  nearly  had  a  battle  over 
which  one  of  'em  should  take  Miss  Lacey  to 
breakfast.  They  might  have  saved  a  lot  of 
breath  because  George  Steck  beat  'em  to  it. 

Fresh  mushrooms  on  toast — that's  what  he 
bought  for  her;  and  they're  my  notion  of  noth 
ing  whatever  in  the  way  of  breakfast  food,  but 
I  suppose  George  felt  it  was  up  to  him  to  show 
that  he  was  no  penny-pincher.  She  looked  just 
as  good  in  the  daylight  as  she  did  the  night 
before,  which  is  a  test  that  stops  a  lot  of  'em. 
I  met  Dorsey  and  his  wife  coming  out  of  the 
dining  car. 

" Pretty  easy  for  me!"  says  Chick  with  a 
wink.  "I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  set  back 
a  few  bones  for  extra  meals,  but  it  seems  I'm 
going  to  have  cooperation — eh?  What?" 

" Ain't  you  ashamed  to  talk  that  way!"  says 
Mrs.  Dorsey,  giving  him  a  slap  on  the  arm. 
"Irma  can't  help  it  if  she's  attractive.  You 
used  to  think  that  I " 

"And  I  do  yet,  old  lady!"  says  Chick. 

I  was  glad  he  choked  her  off.  If  I  was  a 
married  man  I'd  hate  to  have  my  wife  rake 
up  all  the  mushy  things  I  said  in  my  courting 
days.  Women  always  do  it,  and  I  never  saw  a 
husband  yet  that  could  stand  it  without  getting 
red. 

Well,  after  breakfast  it  was  the  same  thing 
over  again,  only  more  so.  If  George  thought 
he  was  buying  a  monopoly  along  with  those 

[250] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


mushrooms  he  had  another  think  coming.  They 
flocked  round  that  girl's  section  like  flies  and 
some  chump  proposed  a  penny-ante  poker  game. 
She  didn't  know  poker  either — which  made  her 
ignorant  of  two  of  the  most  national  pastimes 
there  are — but  that  didn't  make  much  differ 
ence.  She  had  six  or  eight  confidential  advisers 
looking  over  her  shoulder  and  telling  her  what 
to  do  after  taking  a  peek  at  the  other  fellows' 
hands. 

It  wasn't  poker  and  it  wasn't  exactly  petty 
larceny,  but  it  had  elements  of  both.  She  won 
seven  dollars  and  forty  cents — on  a  ten-cent 
limit,  mind  you — and  she  would  have  had  more 
if  the  game  hadn't  broken  up.  "Better  and 
better!"  said  Chick  to  me.  "If  they  teach  her 
many  more  games  I'll  make  her  pay  her  own 
transportation." 

I've  read  somewhere  that  the  way  of  a  man 
with  a  maid  is  queer.  Maybe  it  is ;  but  for  the 
pure  quill  in  queerness  it  ain't  one-two-three 
with  the  way  of  a  maid  and  a  dozen  men. 

I  will  say  for  Miss  Irma  that  she  didn't  play 
any  favourites.  There  were  no  handicap  men ; 
every  fellow  started  at  scratch  and  went  as 
fast  and  as  far  as  he  could.  They  all  looked 
alike  to  her — even  grouchy  old  Sam  Horgan, 
who  wouldn't  pay  any  attention  to  her  for  a 
day  or  two,  but  busted  into  the  race  like  a  stake 
horse  when  he  did  start. 

At  first  I  had  a  notion  that  I  could  pick  the 
winner.  She  went  to  the  theatre  with  Artie 

[251] 


SCOKE    BY    INNINGS 


MacVicar.  Artie  is  a  smooth  and  willing 
worker,  and  he's  loaded  with  the  sort  of  talk 
that  seems  to  make  a  hit  with  women.  I 
thought  he  would  have  the  inside  track,  but  the 
next  night  she  went  to  a  bowling  match  with 
Billy  Runkle.  In  between  she  had  lunches  with 
Sliver  Wheatley  and  Ben  Maddox.  Fatty  Cutts 
took  her  to  the  park  the  first  day  we  played, 
but  Butch  Willard  brought  her  back  to  the 
hotel;  and  she  seemed  just  as  happy  with 
George  Steck  and  Ed  Kilmer  as  with  the  others. 
I  gave  it  up.  Her  system  was  too  complicated 
for  me.  If  I  had  been  making  a  book  on  it  the 
price  would  have  been  ten,  four  and  two — and 
take  your  pick. 

"Your  sister,"  says  I  to  Mrs.  Dorsey,  "has 
made  a  big  hit  with  my  ball  club." 

"Oh,  well,"  says  she,  "there's  safety  in 
numbers." 

"For  the  girl — yes,"  Mrs.  Aiken  puts  in; 
"but  how  about  the  numbers?" 

It  was  wonderful  how  soon  the  symptoms 
of  girlitis  began  to  develop.  In  the  first  town 
we  had  four  games  with  the  Grays,  a  weak 
second-division  outfit  that  had  always  been  easy 
picking  for  us. 

While  we  were  dressing  for  the  opening  game 
Sliver  Wheatley  came  over  and  told  me  how 
good  his  arm  felt ;  and  then  along  came  George 
Steck,  with  the  same  song  and  dance.  Both  of 
'em  wanted  to  work.  I  must  have  been  pretty 
thick,  because  I  didn't  tumble  at  first;  and  then 
it  hit  me  that  they  wanted  to  do  a  little  grand- 

[252] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


standing  for  the  girl's  benefit.  That  made  me 
sore  and  I  sent  Pete  McCorkle  in  to  pitch — not 
because  he  was  married  and  immune,  but  be 
cause  it  was  his  turn  and  he  warmed  up  in  good 
shape.  It  just  happened  that  the  Grays  had  on 
their  batting  clothes  and  in  the  seventh  inning 
they  slammed  Pete  all  over  the  lot.  We  lost 
the  game  five  to  three. 

1  'Aha!"  says  Sliver  on  the  bench.  ''You 
wouldn't  let  a  good  man  work  to-day,  eh?" 

"Huh!"  says  George  Steck.  "If  you'd  been 
in  there  with  your  morning  practice  pitching 
they'd  'a'  had  forty  runs  off  you  by  this  time. 
A  good  man !  Where  do  you  get  that  stuff? ' ' 

"Even  so,"  Sliver  comes  back,  "you  never 
heard  me  beg  to  be  taken  out  because  I  had  a 
cramp!" 

That  was  one  right  where  George  lived,  and 
there's  no  telling  how  far  they  would  have  gone 
with  the  argument  if  I  hadn't  shut  'em  up.  I 
don't  like  to  hear  men  beefing  at  each  other  on 
the  bench.  It's  a  bad  sign. 

A  couple  of  nights  afterward  I  got  a  real 
eye-opener.  I  was  eating  a  sandwich  with  Ben 
Maddox  in  one  of  the  wall  compartments  of 
the  grill  room  at  the  hotel.  Billy  Runkle  was 
in  the  next  one — he  couldn't  see  us  of  course— 
and  he  was  telling  Miss  Lacey  the  story  of  his 
life,  and  not  giving  himself  any  the  worst  of  it. 

"You  know,  Miss  Irma — you  won't  mind  if 
I  call  you  that?  The  other  sounds  so  formal! — 
I  don't  have  to  play  baseball  for  a  living.  No, 
indeed !  My  father  has  a  big  business  in  Day- 

[253] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


ton  and  he  wants  me  to  come  home  and  run  it 
for  him.  I  play  baseball  for  the  love  of  the 
sport  and  not  because  the  money  cuts  any 
figure.  My  father 

Ben  Maddox  looked  at  me  and  we  both 
grinned.  Billy's  old  man  owns  a  candy  store 
about  the  size  of  a  drygoods  box  and  the  only 
time  he  sees  Billy  is  in  the  winter  when  his 
money  runs  out. 

"This  is  going  to  be  good,"  whispers  Ben  to 
me.  " Don't  crab  it!  Let's  see  how  far  he'll 
go." 

Well,  according  to  Billy,  he  was  the  little 
bottle  of  liquid  glue  that  was  holding  our  ball 
club  together.  Without  him  we  wouldn  't  amount 
to  much.  Second  base  was  the  most  important 
position  on  the  team;  and,  though  he  didn't  like 
to  talk  about  himself,  good  second  basemen 
were  scarce.  All  the  other  ones  in  the  league 
were  running  for  Sweeney.  He  raved  along, 
hurrahing  for  himself  every  little  while,  with 
the  girl  saying:  "Yes,  I  understand."  And  in 
between  he  did  some  reverse-English  boosting 
for  the  other  boys. 

Fatty  Cutts,  Sliver  Wheatley,  Artie  Mac- 
Vicar  and  Ed  Kilmer — they  all  got  theirs,  and 
got  it  good.  He  even  told  her  about  Spud 
Pomeroy's  divorce,  and  how  George  Steck  owed 
everybody  in  the  world  and  had  to  borrow 
money  to  last  him  over  the  winters. 

"And  there's  Ben  Maddox,"  says  he — "Ben 
is  all  right.  He's  a  fine  fellow  and  my  pal,  and 
nobody  will  ever  call  him  yellow  wheri  I'm 

[254] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


round.  Of  course  it's  true  that  once  in 
Chicago " 

He  put  the  knife  into  Ben  clear  up  to  the  hilt. 
It  was  done  in  a  nice  sort  of  way,  but  just  the 
same  I  had  to  hold  Ben  in  his  seat.  He  wanted 
to  climb  over  and  start  something. 

"Forget  it!"  I  says.  "Every  knock  is  a 
boost!" 

Then  I  heard  something  that  made  me  sit  up 
and  take  notice. 

"Who,  the  chief?  .  .  .  Yes,  he  ain't  so  bad; 
but  he  can't  think  fast  enough  to  run  a  modern 
ball  club!  He's  too  old  for  the  job.  .  .  .  He 
doesn't  look  it?  Why,  say,  if  he'd  wash  the 
shoeblacking  out  of  his  moustache  and  eye 
brows  he'd  look  a  million!  Old?  That  poor 
wreck  was  playing  baseball  when  Cap  Anson 
was  in  short  pants!" 

Now  I  ask  you:  Was  there  any  excuse  for 
that?  I  could  understand  why  Billy  was  swing 
ing  the  mallet  on  the  other  fellows,  but  why  take 
a  crack  at  me?  I  hadn't  been  making  eyes  at 
the  girl.  Shoeblacking! 

"Easy,  chief!"  says  Ben.  "Every  knock  is 
a  boost!" 

"It  is  if  it  ain't  too  personal,  but  there's  a 
limit  to  everything." 

"Never  mind,"  says  Ben.  "I'll  get  hunk 
with  Billy,  see  if  I  don't !" 

He  did,  the  very  next  day,  but  it  was  the  ball 
club  that  suffered.  In  the  fourth  inning  Runkle 
led  off  at  bat  and  got  a  single.  Ben,  who  fol 
lowed  him  in  the  batting  order,  gave  Billy  the 

[255] 


SCORE   BY    INNINGS 


sign  for  the  hit-and-run — that  is,  he  signalled 
Billy  to  be  moving  with  the  pitcher's  arm  be 
cause  he  intended  to  take  a  wallop  at  the  next 
ball. 

In  a  case  of  the  hit-and-run  the  man  on  first 
doesn't  take  as  long  a  lead  as  he  does  when 
he  tries  to  steal.  He  depends  upon  the  batter 
hitting  the  ball  somewhere.  If  he  misses  the 
runner  is  almost  certain  to  be  thrown  out  at 
second.  I  was  coaching  off  third  and  I  saw  the 
sign  given — two  taps  on  the  heel  of  the  left 
shoe  with  the  end  of  the  bat. 

Billy  started  down  all  right  and  the  ball — a 
fast  one — cut  the  plate  in  two.  Ben  never  even 
took  his  bat  from  round  his  neck  and,  of  course, 
Billy  was  thrown  out  by  such  a  wide  margin 
that  it  made  him  look  foolish. 

"He  crossed  me,  chief!"  says  Billy  as  he 
went  by  on  his  way  to  the  bench.  "The  big 
lobster  gimme  the  sign  as  plain  as  the  nose  on 
your  face  and  then  stood  still  on  a  groover. 
What  do  you  think  of  that,  eh?" 

I  thought  a  lot  more  than  I  said — then  and 
afterward.  Ben  slammed  the  next  ball  for  a 
triple  and  the  run  he  tossed  away  cost  us  the 
game  because  it  went  to  extra  innings,  and  the 
Grays  pulled  out — five  to  four.  I  jumped  all 
over  Ben,  but  he  denied  everything — said  he 
hadn't  given  any  sign — that  he  was  only  knock 
ing  the  dirt  out  of  his  spikes — but  he  didn't  ex 
plain  why  he  hadn't  taken  a  smash  at  the  ball 
when  he  saw  Billy  moving.  It  looked  mighty 
bad  to  me,  for  it  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  a 

[256] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


man  would  do  if  he  wanted  to  make  the  other 
fellow  look  cheap. 

That  was  only  the  beginning  of  the  real 
trouble.  Ben  was  responsible.  He  gave  things 
a  fine  running  start  by  spilling  the  news  that 
Billy  Eunkle  had  set  everybody  on  the  club  in 
bad  with  Miss  Lacey.  At  first  they  thought 
they'd  give  Billy  a  session  of  the  Kangaroo 
Court,  which  is  a  little  worse  than  simple  as 
sault  and  not  quite  so  bad  as  murder  in  the 
second  degree.  Then  they  decided  that  kan- 
garooing  Billy  wouldn't  do  them  any  good  with 
the  girl;  and  the  third  idea  they  got  was  to 
fight  fire  with  fire. 

All  the  hammers  came  out  at  once  and  the 
anvil  chorus  was  a  dying  whisper  beside  the 
knocking  that  came  off  in  the  next  few  days. 
It  was  strictly  a  case  of  self-defence.  Nobody 
knew  what  the  girl  had  been  told  about  him  per 
sonally,  but  everybody  felt  sure  that  it  was 
something  bad;  and  as  each  fellow  got  his 
chance  with  the  girl  he  tried  to  paint  the  other 
fellows  so  black  that  he  would  look  white  by 
comparison. 

You'll  need  a  long  pencil  to  figure  out  how 
many  private  fights  that  sort  of  thing  will  start. 
I  tried  it  once,  but  gave  it  up,  not  being  strong 
on  multiplication.  The  boys  weren't  battling 
for  a  pennant  any  more ;  they  were  fighting  for 
that  tall,  willowy  blonde,  and  the  ball  games 
were  only  a  sideshow  for  the  main  attrac 
tion. 

Everybody  was  looking  sidewise  at  every- 

[257] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


body  else,  and  even  some  of  the  married  men 
had  chips  on  their  shoulders.  If  they  got 
chances  to  show  each  other  up  on  the  diamond 
they  did  it,  and  we  lost  games  that  should  have 
been  locked  up  in  the  grip  before  they  started. 
There  was  jawing  in  the  clubhouse,  crabbing  on 
the  bench  and  beefing  on  the  field. 

Kound  the  hotel  it  was  like  a  bear  garden — 
and  every  bear  with  the  earache.  And,  as  if 
that  wasn't  enough  to  turn  my  hair  grey,  the 
Pink  Sox  took  a  brace  and  came  tearing  after 
us,  hand  over  fist. 

The  hammer  campaign  eliminated  some  of 
the  entries  and  simplified  matters  a  little. 
Fatty  Cutts  was  the  first  to  go.  Then  Irma  quit 
speaking  to  Artie  MacVicar  and  got  so  she 
couldn't  see  George  Steck  with  the  naked  eye. 
Sliver  "Wheatley  was  the  next  to  have  his  cue 
set  out  of  the  game;  and  then  Ed  Kilmer  and 
Butch  Willard  passed  away  side  by  side.  They 
didn't  know  who  to  blame  for  getting  'em  in 
bad,  so  they  blamed  everybody.  It  was  a  lovely 
little  mess. 

By-and-by  it  narrowed  down  to  a  hammer- 
throwing  contest  among  the  infielders.  She 
was  still  on  speaking  terms  with  Ben  Maddox, 
Billy  Runkle  and  Sam  Horgan — all  the  base 
men.  There  was  only  one  left  in  the  infield  that 
wasn't  girl-struck — Chick  Dorsey.  It's  a  good 
thing  he  was  her  brother-in-law  or  he'd  'a'  been 
mixed  up  too. 

I  hoped  the  losers  would  be  satisfied  to  let 
it  go  at  that ;  but  no,  sir !  Nix !  Being  dropped 

[258] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


out  of  the  running  seemed  to  make  them  sorer 
than  ever. 

When  we  got  to  St.  Louis  I  was  a  desperate 
man.  We  were  just  half  a  game  in  front  of 
the  Pinks  and  the  ball  club  was  all  shot  to 
small  pieces.  Something  had  to  be  done;  so  I 
took  Chick  Dorsey  off  in  a  corner  and  talked 
to  him  like  a  Dutch  uncle. 

"Far  be  it  from  me,"  I  says,  "to  hurt  any 
body's  feelings;  but  you've  got  eyes.  You 
know  what's  the  matter  with  this  ball  club  as 
well  as  I  do.  Your  sister-in-law  has— 

"Now  wait !"  says  Chick.  "Is  it  Irma's  fault 
if  these  roughnecks  take  a  shine  to  her?  Can 
a  pretty  girl  help  it  if  fellows  get  stuck  on  her? 
And  I'll  swear  she  hasn't  encouraged  a  single 
one  of  'em,  chief." 

"I  ain't  claiming  she  has,"  says  I;  "but 
she's  too  good  a  listener  to  suit  me.  She's 
encouraged  a  lot  of  knocking,  that's  what  she's 
done — and  it's  got  to  stop.  She's  put  this  ball 
club  on  the  bum!" 

"Even  if  that  was  so,"  says  Chick — "and  I 
don't  for  a  minute  admit  it — what  can  you  do 
about  it?" 

"Do?"  I  says.  "Why,  ship  her  home  and 
give  these  lunatics  a  chance  to  forget  her!" 

"By  golly,  I  never  thought  of  that!"  Chick 
says.  "It  might  be  done." 

"There's  ain't  any  might  about  it.  It's  got 
to  be  done  if  we  want  any  part  of  that  World's 
Series  dough.  With  her  out  of  the  way  these 
fools  will  get  back  on  their  feet  again.  Keep 

[259] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


her  with  the  club  another  week  and  they'll  be 
murdering  each  other." 

"I'll  speak  to  my  wife  about  it,"  says  Chick 
in  a  mild  tone. 

"Speak  to  nobody!"  says  I.  "Buy  her  a 
ticket  on  to-night's  train.  'Here's  your  hat! 
What's  your  hurry?'  Tell  her  any  old  lie  that 
comes  handy,  but  get  her  away  from  this  ball 
club!" 

"I'll  do  it  if  you  say  so,"  says  Chick;  "but  I 
still  think  it  ain't  her  fault." 

"Nothing  was  ever  a  woman's  fault,"  I  says, 
"and  never  will  be.  You  ought  to  know  that. 
Go  get  that  ticket!" 

This  was  early  in  the  morning.  At  noon 
Miss  Irma  came  sailing  down  to  lunch,  and  by 
the  look  she  gave  me  I  saw  that  Chick  hadn't 
been  able  to  think  of  a  good  convenient  lie  and 
had  passed  the  buck  to  the  man  higher  up. 
Pretty  soon  Mrs.  Aiken  came  buzzing  along 
all  excited  and  so  full  of  talk  that  she  couldn't 
take  time  to  draw  a  full  breath. 

"Isn't  it  too  bad?"  she  says  to  me.  "We're 
going  to  lose  our  excess  baggage !  Miss  Lacey 
is  starting  home  to-night." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  I  looked  her  square 
in  the  eye  too.  "What's  the  matter?  Sickness 
at  home,  or  something?" 

"That's  what  I  can't  find  out.  It  will  be  an 
awful  blow  to  some  of  the  boys,  won't  it?" 

"Worse  than  that!"  I  says.  "I  don't  know 
how  we're  going  to  struggle  along  without  her. 
Awful  nice  little  girl ! ' ' 

[260] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


"Humph!"  Mrs.  Aiken  snorted  and  went 
away. 

Well,  of  course,  it  was  all  over  the  hotel  in 
no  time.  Give  a  woman  a  piece  of  news  and 
trust  her  to  peddle  it.  After  Mrs.  Aiken  had 
scattered  it  pretty  well  she  went  into  the  dining- 
room  and  sat  down  with  the  Dorseys  and  Miss 
Lacey — looking  for  information,  I  '11  bet. 

About  the  same  time  Ben  Maddox  came  fly 
ing  in  from  the  billiard  parlour,  looked  all 
over  the  place  and  then  sat  down  in  the  pas 
sageway,  as  close  to  the  dining-room  door  as 
he  could  get.  Then  along  came  Billy  Runkle, 
with  a  wild  look  in  his  eye.  He  calmed  down 
as  soon  as  he  spotted  Ben,  and,  after  trying  two 
or  three  chairs  without  finding  one  that  suited 
him,  he  camped  across  the  way  from  Maddox. 
Sam  Horgan  clattered  in  from  the  street,  sweat 
ing  a  little.  Where  he  got  the  news  I  don't 
know,  but  he  looked  as  if  he  had  been  run 
ning. 

It  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  watch  those 
three  rascals  pretending  to  read  newspapers 
and  trying  to  act  as  if  they  had  just  happened 
to  pick  out  the  same  place  to  sit  down.  A  blind 
man  could  have  seen  that  each  one  of  'em 
thought  he  was  the  only  fellow  who  knew  that 
the  girl  was  going  away  and  didn't  want  to  tip 
it  off  to  the  others.  When  she  came  out  they 
made  a  rush  for  her. 

"No,  thank  you!"  I  heard  her  say.  "I'm 
not  going  to  the  game  this  afternoon.  I  think 
I'll  stay  here  at  the  hotel." 

[261] 


SCOEE   BY   INNINGS 


They  followed  her  to  the  elevator,  all  talking 
at  once  and  of  course  saying  nothing  about  her 
going  away. 

"Will  you  take  dinner  with  me,  Miss 
Irma?" 

"How  about  a  little  auto  ride  after  the 
game?" 

"Are  you  going  to  be  here  all  the  after 
noon?" 

She  waited  until  the  elevator  door  was  half 
shut. 

"Maybe!" 

That  was  every  word  she  said.  It  answered 
all  three  questions  without  saying  yes  or  no 
to  anybody  and  it  left  all  three  of  'em  in  a 
position  to  do  some  guessing.  That's  what  I 
call  generalship.  If  you  fix  it  so  that  a  man 
can  draw  his  own  conclusions  from  what  a 
woman  says  he'll  usually  pick  the  cards  he 
needs  to  fill  a  strong  hand. 

"There'll  be  quite  a  race  back  to  the  hotel 
after  the  game."  It  was  Mrs.  Aiken  again,  still 
looking  for  information. 

"Race  for  what?"  says  I. 

"Why,  to  check  the  excess  baggage!"  says 
she.  "Look  here,  chief!  You  needn't  pretend 
to  be  so  innocent." 

I  didn't  say  a  word.  I  didn't  dare  to.  I  was 
expecting  some  telegrams;  so  I  waited  at  the 
hotel  until  all  the  boys  had  started  for  the  park. 
As  I  was  standing  at  the  desk  in  came  a  big 
whale  of  a  man — a  square-shouldered,  light- 
haired  young  fellow,  with  a  couple  of  suitcases 

[262] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


marked:  A.  J.  0.,  S.  F.  About  nine  bellhops 
made  a  run  at  him.  He  looked  like  money. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  says  he  to  the  clerk, 
''whether  Miss  Irma  Lacey  is  in  her  room? 
.  .  .  She  is?  Put  me  on  the  'phone,  please. 
.  .  .  Hello!  .  .  .  Yes,  this  is  Al;  I'm  down 
stairs  .  .  .  just  got  in!  .  .  .  You'll  be  right 
down?  Fine!" 

He  turned  round  and  snapped  his  fingers. 

"Boy!"  he  says.    " Call  me  a  taxi !" 

I  read  the  riot  act  in  the  clubhouse  before 
the  game. 

"Here  we  are,"  I  says,  "just  hanging  in  the 
lead  by  an  eyelash,  when  by  rights  we  ought 
to  have  this  pennant  cinched  to  a  f are-ye-well ! 
You  haven't  been  beaten  by  better  clubs  or  out- 
lucked  either.  The  games  you  lost  were  thrown 
away  because  you've  been  too  busy  fighting 
among  yourselves.  You've  been  using  this  ball 
club  as  a  clearing  house  for  your  troubles ;  and 
there's  going  to  be  an  end  to  that  foolishness — 
right  here  and  now !  You  dig  in  and  play  base 
ball  from  now  on  and  forget  that  there's  any 
thing,  or  anybody,  on  earth  but  just  the  folks 
that  we've  got  to  beat  to  get  into  the  World's 
Series.  There  ain't  going  to  be  any  girl  in  the 
grandstand  to-day!" 

Well,  it  worked  like  a  charm. 

At  the  end  of  the  fifth  inning  we  had  'em 
licked  to  the  tune  of  four  to  nothing.  Old 
Sliver  was  putting  a  lot  of  stuff  on  every  ball 
and  working  as  hard  as  if  he  was  pitching  in  a 
World's  Series.  The  St.  Louis  batters  were 
[263] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


chopping  at  his  fast  one  after  Fatty  Cutts  had 
it  folded  in  his  mitt,  and  missing  his  slow 
curves  by  six  inches.  Ben  Maddox  had  made  a 
couple  of  healthy-looking  hits;  Sam  Horgan 
was  cavorting  round  the  difficult  corner  like  a 
two-year-old;  and  Billy  Runkle  was  playing 
second  like  a  wild  man. 

In  the  sixth  inning  Maddox  got  his  third  long 
hit — a  double — and  he  had  to  slide  to  second  in 
order  to  make  it.  It  was  an  easy  hook  slide.  I 
was  where  I  could  see  and  I'll  swear  that  Ben 
didn't  hit  anything  but  the  dirt;  but  instead  of 
getting  up  he  rolled  round  and  groaned  so  loud 
I  could  hear  him  away  over  back  of  third  base. 
I  ran  out  to  him. 

"Hurt,  Ben?"  I  says. 

"I  think  I've  sprained  my  ankle,"  he  says, 
gritting  his  teeth  and  sucking  in  his  breath. 
"Get  a  couple  of  the  boys  to  help  me  off  the 
field." 

Billy  Runkle  had  come  over  with  the  others 
to  have  a  look  at  Maddox. 

"Get  up,  you  big  tramp!"  says  Billy.  "You 
ain't  hurt  any  more  than  I  am.  Get  up  and 
quit  stalling!" 

Ben  pretended  he  didn't  hear  him. 

"I  can  feel  it  swelling,"  says  he.  "I  don't 
believe  I  can  walk.  Maybe  I'd  better  be 
carried." 

Ben  gave  a  dying-gladiator  look,  rolled  over 
twice,  sat  up  and  took  his  ankle  in  both  hands — 
his  right  ankle,  as  I  noticed. 

"Let  it  alone !"  says  he,  groaning  louder  than 
[264] 


EXCESS    BAGGAGE 


ever.  "I've  had  enough  sprains  to  know  what 
one  feels  like.  What  I  need  is  hot  water  and 
liniment.  Golly,  but  it  hurts!  Whee-ee!" 

Well,  what  could  I  do?  I  had  to  give  him 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  of  course.  He  went  off 
the  field,  with  one  arm  round  the  neck  of  the 
negro  rubber,  Doctor  Bones;  and  by  the  way 
he  limped  he  might  have  had  anything  from  a 
sprain  to  a  compound  fracture. 

"Say,  chief,"  says  Sam  Horgan,  "wouldn't 
it  be  a  good  thing  to  have  Ben  stay  in  the  club 
house  until  after  the  game?  You  want  to  see 
how  bad  he's  hurt,  don't  you?" 

1 1  Huh ! ' '  says  Billy  Eunkle.  « '  He  thinks  he 's 
got  a  date — outside  of  that  he's  all  right. 
Don't  let  him  put  one  over  on  you,  chief. 
Make  him  wait  in  the  clubhouse." 

I  could  see  their  point  of  view.  They  figured 
that  Ben  had  stolen  a  march  on  'em  and  was 
going  to  beat  'em  to  the  hotel.  I  didn't  know 
whether  he  had  or  not,  but  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  I'd  have  a  good  look  at  that  sprained  ankle. 
Eunkle  and  Horgan  hung  round  me  and  crabbed 
and  peeved  until  I  had  to  remind  'em  of  that 
fine.  They  were  still  growling  when  they  went 
on  the  field  for  the  seventh  inning.  I  had  to 
put  Eddie  Reeves  at  first  base  in  Ben's  place. 
I  hated  to  do  it  because  Eddie  is  weak  on  a  low 
ball  and  a  bad  throw  bothers  him. 

Caley,  the  St.  Louis  shortstop,  beat  out  a 
bunt  and  started  to  steal  on  the  first  ball  pitched 
to  the  next  batter.  Caley  is  a  streak  of  fire 
on  the  bases,  but  Fatty  Cutts  made  a  perfect 

[265] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


peg  to  second  and  from  where  I  sat  it  looked 
as  if  Billy  Runkle  got  the  ball  on  Caley  as  he 
slid.  Tom  McGinn,  the  umpire,  didn't  think  so. 
He  squatted  and  spread  both  hands. 

The  next  thing  I  knew,  Billy  was  jumping  up 
and  down  in  front  of  McGinn  and  calling  him 
pet  names. 

"Why,  you  blind  burglar!"  yells  Billy. 
"You  poor  old  petty-larceny  crook!  I  had  him 
a  mile — a  mile !  The  ball  was  here  waiting  for 
him  and  he  slid  into  it !  Safe  1  You  're  crazy ! ' ' 

McGinn  backed  away,  shaking  his  head,  with 
Billy  after  him.  Tom  is  a  little  man,  but  pep 
pery — an  umpire  who  won't  stand  for  anything 
in  the  way  of  rough  stuff  on  the  diamond. 

Every  ballplayer  in  the  league  knows  that  to 
lay  the  weight  of  a  finger  on  Tom  McGinn  is 
just  the  same  as  wishing  himself  out  of  the 
game — with  a  fine  and  maybe  a  suspension  on 
top  of  it. 

I  smelled  it  coming  and  started  on  the  run 
for  Billy,  but  I  was  too  late.  He  walked  up  to 
McGinn  and  grabbed  him  by  the  collar.  He 
didn't  do  it  like  a  man  acting  on  a  sudden  im 
pulse  either.  It  was  cold  and  deliberate,  and 
done  in  such  a  manner  that  McGinn  couldn't 
overlook  it — and  right  there  was  where  the 
light  flashed  on  me.  I  could  have  cussed  myself 
for  not  seeing  it  before  and  warning  Tom. 
Billy  wasn't  kicking  on  account  of  the  decision 
at  second  base ;  he  was  kicking  to  get  himself 
chased  off  the  field.  Ben  had  a  little  head-start 
on  him,  but  Billy  had  found  a  way  to  give  him 

[266] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


a  race  and  he  was  using  Tom  McGinn  to  help 
him  do  it. 

Sam  Horgan  must  have  tumbled  to  it  about 
the  same  time  I  did.  He  couldn't  see  Billy  and 
Ben  both  on  their  way  and  him  left  out  in  the 
cold;  so  he  came  tearing  over  and  grabbed 
Mac  too. 

"A  little  home  umpiring,  eh?"  roars  Sam. 
''Robber!" 

Between  'em  they  shook  that  little  man  like 
a  woman  shakes  a  blanket.  They  jounced  him 
up  and  down  until  his  teeth  rattled;  they  spun 
him  round  like  a  dancing  bear.  I  made  a  dive 
for  Horgan  to  drag  him  away,  but  my  hand 
slipped  and  struck  McGinn  in  the  face. 

"You  too!"  he  gasps.  "To  the  clubhouse — 
all  three  of  you!" 

That  was  what  they  were  waiting  for.  The 
words  were  no  sooner  out  of  McGinn's  mouth 
than  they  let  go  of  him,  picked  up  their  gloves 
and  away  they  went,  neck  and  neck  in  a  sprint 
for  the  clubhouse  gate.  Tom  stared  after  'em 
with  his  mouth  open;  and  no  wonder! 

Now  everybody  knows  that  when  a  ballplayer 
is  ordered  off  the  field  it  takes  him  a  long  time 
to  get  started.  First  he  has  to  talk  with  the 
umpire  about  it.  "Who,  me?  What  for?" 
When  he  finally  gets  it  through  his  head  that 
he  is  the  party  the  ump  is  after,  he  chucks 
away  his  glove — and  has  to  walk  over  and  pick 
it  up. 

Then  he  heads  for  the  bench,  turning  round 
every  two  steps  to  tell  the  umpire  something 

[267] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


that  has  just  occurred  to  him.  On  the  bench 
he  has  to  pick  out  his  sweater — usually  tries 
on  two  or  three  before  he  finds  the  right  one. 
After  that  he  must  have  a  drink  of  water  and 
borrow  a  chew  of  tobacco  and  attend  to  a  few 
other  little  matters. 

At  last  he  marches  off  the  field,  slow  and 
dignified,  like  a  pallbearer  at  a  funeral.  Hurry? 
He  wouldn't  hurry  for  a  farm.  You  know 
what  the  old  Irishwoman  said:  "I'll  go — but 
the  likes  of  ye  can't  put  me  out!"  That's  it 
exactly.  It's  tradition  for  the  ballplayer  to  use 
up  every  second  of  the  time  the  rules  give  him. 
It's  a  kiddish  trick  and  there's  no  sense  in  it; 
but  they  were  doing  it  when  I  broke  into  the 
league  and  they'll  be  doing  it  so  long  as  base 
ball  lasts. 

"Holy  cats!"  says  McGinn.  "First  time  I 
ever  saw  that !  Look  at  those  birds  fly !  Did 
they  want  to  get  out  of  the  game?" 

"They  did,"  says  I,  "and  you  gave  'em 
their  wish!"  Hopping  mad  as  he  was,  Tom 
had  to  smile. 

"Mac,"  I  says,  "be  reasonable!  I  was  only 
trying  to  pull  Horgan  off  and  my  hand  slipped. 
It  did— honest!" 

"All  right!"  says  McGinn.  "It  was  an  acci 
dent  if  you  say  so.  Why  didn't  you  tip  me  off? 
I  wouldn't  have  let  'em  out  of  the  game.  Get 
back  on  the  bench." 

You  can  imagine  the  fix  that  left  us  in — three 
substitutes  playing  the  infield,  one  shortstop 
with  a  brainstorm,  and  the  whole  team  a  mile 

[268] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


in  the  air!  I  put  Lannon  at  second  and  Ed 
Kilmer  at  third — and  prayed  for  luck. 

Up  came  the  St.  Louis  batters  and  began  to 
bunt — the  very  best  way  to  go  after  a  nervous 
infield.  Kilmer  heaved  one  over  Reeves'  head 
into  right  field;  Lannon  booted  away  an  easy 
chance;  Sliver  Wheatley  got  rattled  and  lost 
control — and  in  no  time  at  all  they  had  two 
runs  home,  the  bases  were  loaded  and  nobody 
was  out. 

I  benched  Wheatley  and  sent  Bob  Aiken  in, 
but  there  was  no  stopping  'em ;  they  had  us  on 
the  run  and  they  knew  it.  They  scored  seven 
times  before  we  got  'em  out  and  we  dropped 
into  second  place  in  the  percentage  table  with 
a  crash  that  jarred  the  entire  league. 

It  was  a  savage  bunch  that  headed  for  the 
clubhouse  after  the  agony  was  over — final 
score,  eleven  to  five !  Everybody  knew  that 
Sam  and  Billy  had  kicked  themselves  out  of  the 
game  on  purpose  and  everybody  knew  why. 
There  was  a  lot  of  loose  talk  about  what  ought 
to  be  done  to  'em  for  it.  In  the  general  ex 
citement  I  came  near  forgetting  about  Ben's 
ankle.  Doctor  Bones  reminded  me. 

"Good  land,  chief,"  says  he,  "I  nevah  did 
git  no  chance  to  doctah  that  man's  ankle — none 
a-a-at  all!  He  comes  in  yere,  busts  into  his 
things  like  he's  goin'  to  a  fire  an'  beats  it,  sing- 
in':  'Every  Day'll  be  Sunday  By  and  By!'  I 
reckon  he  ain't  as  bad  hu't  as  he  thought.  .  .  . 
No,  suh !  Don't  ast  me  nuthin '  'bout  that  ankle ! 
He  wouldn't  lemme  see  it  even.  He  says  I  ain't 

[269] 


SCOKE    BY    INNINGS 


a  reg'lah  practishner  nohow.  Mist'  Ho'gan  an' 
Mist'  Runkle  they  come  boilin'  in  and  seem 
quite  peeved  to  fin'  Mist'  Maddox  gone  a 'ready. 
Mist'  Runkle  he  sent  me  out  to  hire  a  taxi — a 
fast  one — an'  a  man  whut  know  how  to  drive! 
Look  to  me  like  they's  some  rasmustidiousness 
goin'  on  round  yere,  chief!" 

I  made  a  beeline  for  the  desk  as  soon  as  I 
got  to  the  hotel. 

II  Tough  game  to  lose,  chief!"  says  Shaun 
Ryan,  the  clerk. 

''You  bet  it  was!"  says  I.  "Maddox  been 
here?" 

Ryan  grinned.  You  can't  fool  the  Irish  about 
some  things. 

"All  three  of  'em  got  here  about  the  same 
time,"  says  he.  "They  were  looking  for  a 
certain  party,  but  she  wasn't  in.  She  went  out 
about  two  and  hasn't  come  back  yet.  They're 
sticking  round,  waiting.  Maddox  is  in  the  bar, 
Runkle  is  in  the  grill  and  Horgan  is  in  the  writ 
ing-room.  I'm  to  send  word  to  all  of  'em  the 
minute  she  shows  up." 

I  went  into  the  bar  first.  Ben  was  there  and 
when  he  saw  me  he  began  to  limp  pitifully. 

"How's  the  ankle,  Ben?"  says  I. 

"Pretty  bad,  chief,"  he  says;  "but  I  think 
it'll  be  better  to-morrow." 

"I  hope  so,"  I  says.  "It's  the  first  time  I 
ever  saw  a  man  slide  hard  enough  to  bung  up 
both  ankles  at  once." 

"What  d'ye  mean — both  ankles  at  once?" 


growls  Ben. 


[270] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


"Why,"  says  I,  "you  limped  with  the  right 
one  at  the  ball  park,  but  I  see  the  left  one  is 
troubling  you  now. ' ' 

He  tried  to  change  step,  but  he  couldn't  get 
away  with  it.  His  face  turned  red  as  a  beet 
and  he  began  to  splutter. 

"Never  mind  the  alibi!"  I  says.  "Save  it 
for  Sweeney — he's  collecting  'em.  I'm  not  a 
regular  practitioner,  Ben,  but  I  know  of  a 
remedy  that  cures  that  sort  of  sprains  you're 
troubled  with.  I'm  going  to  plaster  each  one 
of  your  ankles  with  a  fifty-dollar  fine — one  hun 
dred  large  iron  men  out  of  your  next  pay 
check!  I'll  teach  you  to  play  horse  with  my 
ball  club!" 

I  called  on  Sam  in  the  writing-room  and 
handed  him  the  same  dose.  He  couldn't  think 
of  a  word  to  say.  Billy  Runkle  did  a  little 
better.  He  said  he  thought  we  had  a  safe  lead 
or  he  wouldn't  have  done  it.  He  never  even 
peeped  about  the  hundred-dollar  fine — just 
swallowed  hard  a  couple  of  times  and  let  it  go 
at  that.  As  I  was  telling  him  what  I  thought 
of  a  fellow  who  would  throw  down  his  ball  club 
on  account  of  a  girl,  in  came  a  bellhop. 

"Mr.  Ryan  says  Miss  Lacey  is  here!" 

Billy  bolted  like  a  shot  and  I  trailed  along 
to  see  the  fun.  Shaun  had  allowed  for  distance 
and  handicapped  'em  nicely;  all  three  of  'em 
arrived  on  the  spot  at  the  same  time  and  then 
backed  up,  looking  foolish — for  there  was  the 
girl,  hanging  on  the  arm  of  the  big  light-haired 
chap.  Both  of  'em  were  smiling. 

[271] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


"  Introduce  me  to  your  friends,  Irma,"  says 
he. 

*  'Certainly!"  She  stepped  forward  as  cool 
as  a  cucumber — not  a  blush — not  a  tremour  in 
her  voice.  "Gentlemen,  let  me  present  Mr. 
Olson  of  San  Francisco.  We  were  married  this 
afternoon !  Dear,  this  is  Mr.  Maddox — and  Mr. 
Eunkle — and  Mr.  Horgan 

Generalship  again,  you  see!  She  didn't  even 
give  'em  time  to  recover  from  the  blow,  for  as 
each  man's  name  was  called  he  had  to  step  up 
and  make  a  bluff  at  saying  something  pleasant. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  I'm  sure!"  says  Ben. 
"A— a  little  sudden,  wasn't  it?" 

"How  d'ye  do?"  says  Billy.  "Wish  you 
luck  and — well,  you  know!  Many  happy  re 
turns  of  the  day." 

"Married!"  says  Sam.  "Well,  wouldn't 
that  kill  you!" 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  not!"  says  the  big  fellow, 
and  everybody  had  a  chance  to  laugh.  That 
broke  the  tension. 

Well,  you  can  imagine  what  a  sensation  it 
kicked  up  round  the  hotel;  but  the  man  who 
roared  the  loudest  and  the  longest  was  Chick 
Dorsey. 

"Did  I  know  about  it!"  says  he.  "I  should 
say  not !  She  put  one  over  on  me  too.  Had  it 
all  framed  up  with  this  Olson  party  and  worked 
me  for  the  carfare.  So  this  is  what  she  meant 
by  seeing  America  first,  eh?  Well,  I  was  right 
about  one  thing,  chief:  She  never  encouraged 
any  of  these  fellows ! ' ' 

[272] 


EXCESS   BAGGAGE 


Of  course  Mrs.  Aiken  had  to  get  busy  im 
mediately. 

1 ' Isn't  it  lovely  and  romantic!"  she  says. 
" Chief,  don't  you  think  the  club  ought  to  give 
her  a  wedding  present?" 

"I  don't  know  about  the  club,"  says  I;  "but 
I'm  going  to  give  her  one — no,  three!" 

I  sent  her  duplicate  receipts  for  the  three 
fines,  at  one  hundred  dollars  apiece;  but  I 
guess  she  didn't  understand  what  they  meant. 
Maybe  her  husband  did. 

Later  on  I  had  a  chance  to  send  her  a  bill 
for  excess  baggage  amounting  to  $86,497.23. 
That  was  the  Pinks'  share  of  the  World's 
Series  money,  which  would  have  been  ours  but 
for  Mrs.  Al.  J.  Olson. 

I've  traded  Bob  Aiken  to  the  Grays  just  to 
keep  his  wife  from  saying  "I  told  you  so!" 
We've  got  a  happy  family  again;  but  if  any 
body  else  on  my  ball  club  has  a  sister-in-law 
who  wants  to  see  America  first  she'll  never 
look  at  it  through  the  windows  of  our  Pullman. 
From  now  on  this  outfit  flies  light — and  I'll 
shoot  the  man  who  says  Excess  Baggage  to  me. 


[273] 


NINE  ASSISTS  AND  TWO  ERRORS 


THOSE  dry  historians,  the  keepers  of  the 
official  box  score,  say  it  cannot  be  done. 

They  will  tell  you  that  it  is  not  baseball ; 

and  that  the  sacred  rules  of  the  same,  as 
ratified  by  the  National  Commission,  may  not 
be  trifled  with  to  such  an  extent  as  to  charge 
two  errors  against  a  middle-aged  man  who  sits 
on  the  bench,  chews  plug  tobacco  and  takes  no 
active  part  in  the  game.  They  may  also  call 
attention  to  the  physical  impossibility  of  credit 
ing  nine  men  with  an  assist  apiece  upon  the 
person  of  a  single  player — and  no  put-out  regis 
tered. 

Away  with  these  figure-mongers !  They  are 
more  to  be  pitied  than  censured;  and  if  they 
are  lacking  in  imagination,  delicate  sentiment 
and  the  true  spirit  of  romance,  they  owe  it  to 
long  association  with  the  box  score.  Figures 
are  honest  things,  but  dust  dry  and  painfully 
prosaic.  This  is  the  story  of  Shamus  Kehoe 
and  the  Sentimental  Harps ;  Shamus  made  the 
errors  and  the  Harps  made  the  assists;  and, 
for  fear  the  scorekeepers  may  miss  something, 
each  point  will  be  ticked  off  for  their  especial 
benefit. 

[274] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


Shamus  Kehoe,  known  wherever  baseballs  fly 
as  Shameless  Kehoe,  the  bench  manager  of  the 
brilliant  ball  team  called  the  Harps,  was  the  last 
sturdy  bulwark  against  what  he  was  pleased  to 
term  "the  foreign  ilimint  in  baseball." 

By  foreigners  Shamus  meant  all  Germans, 
Scandinavians,  Italians,  native  New  England- 
ers  and  college  men. 

Kehoe  \vas  a  relic  of  the  lively  days  when 
umpires  went  into  hiding  after  every  game, 
sleeping  in  their  boots  to  make  sure  of  a  flying 
start.  When  his  playing  days  were  over  and 
he  found  himself  a  bench  manager,  with  a  per 
manent  charley-horse  in  his  left  leg,  and  power 
to  act  as  he  saw  fit,  he  spoke  his  mind  to  Man- 
nie  Freiberger,  the  young  owner  of  the  club. 

"It's  a  winnin'  ball  team  ye  want,  I  take  it!" 
said  Kehoe. 

"I  do  that!"  said  Freiberger.  "On  paper 
the  team  looks  all  right;  but— 

"Ye've  said  enough!"  interrupted  the  new 
manager  sternly.  "All  right  on  paper,  is  it? 
Listen — Schwartz !  Olson !  Lagomarsino ! 
Rosenbaum!  Schneider!  "Whitcomb!  Tallia- 
ferro!  Steinmitz!  That's  a  fine  bunch  av 
bir-rds  to  be  chasin'  pennants  with!  There 
ain't  a  natural  ballplayer  in  the  lot!" 

"I  don't  see  how  you  figure  that  out,"  pro 
tested  the  owner.  "Those  men  are  all  good 
players — every  one  of  them." 

"Pinocle?    Yes.    Baseball?    No!" 

Thus  in  four  words  did  Shamus  Kehoe  fore 
shadow  his  future  policy  as  manager.  He 

[275] 


SCOKE    BY    INNINGS 


stepped  out  into  the  baseball  mart  and  traded 
the  Schneiders  and  the  Lagomarsinos  and  the 
Steinmitzes  with  a  lavish  hand,  gathering 
about  him  a  collection  of  names  that  smote 
pleasantly  upon  his  ear.  A  camel  might  pass 
through  the  eye  of  a  needle  with  less  difficulty 
than  a  foreigner  would  experience  in  planting 
his  name  upon  Shameless  Kehoe's  payroll. 

Other  managers,  lacking  in  sentiment  and 
proper  feeling,  threw  down  the  bars  to  tow- 
headed  Norwegians  with  batting  averages, 
stolid  but  talented  Teutons,  and  perfumed  col 
lege  boys;  but  Shamus  Kehoe,  believing  with 
heart  and  soul  that  all  the  great  players  of  his 
tory  were  Irish,  stood  firm  against  the  invad 
ing  horde,  preserving  upon  his  payroll  the  an 
cient  traditions  of  the  national  pastime.  The 
first  question  he  asked  about  a  recruit  was  often 
the  last:  "What  is  the  name  av  him?" 

It  needed  three  years  to  assemble  a  new  ball 
club — a  more  difficult  feat  than  most  people 
imagine.  Big-league  performers  are  scarce  at 
best  and  Kehoe's  choice  was  restricted;  but  at 
last  he  looked  upon  a  finished  work  and  told 
Mannie  Freiberger  that  the  time  had  come  to 
enlarge  the  grandstand  and  bleachers. 

For  instance,  there  was  the  Harp  outfield: 
Aloysius  Gilligan  in  left;  John  Tyrone  Galle- 
gher  in  centre,  and  Wolfe  Tone  Finnigan  in 
right.  No  one  will  ever  know  how  much  time, 
money  and  thought  were  spent  in  collecting  that 
precious  trio.  Gilligan  came  first — Shamus 
gave  two  Germans  and  a  Swede  for  him,  and 

[276] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


would  have  thrown  in  an  Italian  if  necessary. 
Then  Gallegher  was  discovered  upon  the  sand- 
lots  of  Boston.  Lastly,  and  the  crowning  stroke 
of  fortune,  Wolfe  Tone  Finnigan  dropped,  a 
gift  from  Heaven,  off  the  back  end  of  an  ice- 
wagon  in  Chicago.  Finnigan  was  a  small, 
wizen-faced  young  man,  who  was  never  known 
to  miss  a  fly  ball  or  an  early  morning  mass ;  and 
in  some  quarters  it  was  believed  that  he  had 
once  entertained  hopes  of  becoming  a  Christian 
Brother. 

The  infield  was  no  less  a  notable  achieve 
ment — with  Tad  Costigan  at  first;  Mixed-ale 
Mulligan  at  second;  little  Malachy  Dugan  at 
short,  and  Francis  X.  Shea  at  third — all  nat 
ural  ballplayers,  as  their  names  would  indi 
cate. 

The  best  team  is  no  stronger  than  its  catch 
ing  staff.  Dan'l  O'C.  O'Malley;  Bartholomew 
Burke,  better  known  as  Barking  Bart,  and 
Windy  Jawnny  O'Brien — these  were  the  first, 
second  and  third  string  catchers. 

The  pitchers  were  also  handpicked,  with  a 
careful  eye  to  specifications. 

4 'The  best  pitchin'  staff  in  the  world!"  Ke- 
hoe  used  to  boast.  "Hark  to  the  names  av 
thim:  Flannel  Halloran;  Brick  Donovan;  Bed 
Timothy  Tierney;  Robert  Immit  Mclnerney; 
Philip  Casey;  Black  Peter  P.  Prenderghast,  an' 
Judge  Jimmy  0 'Houlihan — kin  to  the  kings  av 
Ireland.  It  might  be  stronger  had  we  a  Kelly, 
a  Sullivan  or  a  Dooley  to  fall  back  upon;  but 
let  it  go  at  that.  Show  me  the  team  av  square- 

[277] 


SCOEE    BY    INNINGS 


headed  Swedes  or  downhearted  Dutchmen  that 
can  drive  thim  from  the  box!" 

In  January  Shamus  Kehoe  received  an  offi 
cial  communication  from  Mannie  Freiberger, 
which  read  as  follows : 

My  dear  Mr.  Kehoe:  Yours  of  the  tenth  in 
stant,  in  regard  to  reservations  for  yourself 
and  family  at  spring  training  camp,  received 
and  contents  noted.  Same  shall  have  prompt 
attention. 

Kindly  arrange  to  give  a  thorough  trial  to 
a  recruit  pitcher  named  Martin  L.  McCall,  who 
has  been  recommended  to  me.  He  will  join 
the  team  at  Roseville.  I  have  a  personal  in 
terest  in  McCall  and  hope  that  you  will  be 
able  to  make  something  out  of  him.  Trusting 
that  yourself  and  family  are  enjoying  the  best 
of  health,  I  am 

Yours  very  truly, 

I.  FREIBERGER. 

Shamus  Kehoe  read  the  letter  to  his  wife, 
who  had  been  a  Miss  Veronica  Shaughnessy  be 
fore  she  decided  to  spend  the  greater  part  of 
a  ballplayer's  paycheck.  Shamus  read  all  the 
business  letters  to  her  and  it  was  persistently 
rumoured  about  the  clubhouse  that  Mrs.  Kehoe, 
sitting  at  the  last  court  of  appeal,  cast  the  de 
ciding  vote  in  many  minor  matters  affecting  the 
team. 

"That's  the  worst  av  these  absentee  own 
ers!"  growled  Kehoe,  crushing  Freiberger 's 

[278] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


letter  in  his  hand.  "They  hire  a  man  to  run 
the  ball  club  accordin'  to  his  own  ideas  an' 
fancies,  and  then  they  want  to  jog  his  elbow 
every  little  while.  Martin  L.  McCall!  Where 
did  he  ever  tend  bar?  The  name  has  the  right 
sound,  but  I  never  heard  tell  av  him — not  even 
as  a  bush  pitcher." 

" Don't  be  grumblin',  Shamus,"  said  Veron 
ica.  "Dear  heart  alive!  Supposin'  now  he'd 
asked  ye  to  try  out  a  pitcher  named  Cohen?" 

"Glory!"  shouted  Kehoe.  "Mannie  is  no 
Solomon,  but  he  knows  better  than  that.  Mar 
tin  L.?  I'll  bet  ye,  ma'am,  McCall 's  middle 
name  is  Luke;  an'  f  r  that  he'll  get  his  chance 
in  spite  av  Freiberger's  pers'nal  interest  in 
him." 

Mannie  Freiberger's  interest  in  the  recruit 
pitcher  had  a  flavour  of  business  about  it.  His 
father,  Abraham  Freiberger,  had  extensive 
dealings  with  the  J.  J.  McCall  Shoe  Company, 
of  Boston,  Massachusetts.  Mr.  J.  J.  McCall 
had  mentioned  to  Mr.  A.  Freiberger  that  his 
son  Martin,  just  out  of  college,  was  desirous 
of  "pitching  a  little  professional  baseball  for 
the  fun  of  the  thing."  Mr.  A.  Freiberger 
knew  nothing  whatever  about  the  national 
pastime  save  what  he  had  been  able  to  gather 
from  glancing  over  the  yearly  financial  state 
ment,  but  he  was  a  competent  business  man 
and  he  reflected  that  the  McCall  account  was 
a  large  one  and  worth  keeping  at  a  price.  He 
mentioned  the  matter  to  his  son,  Mr.  I.  Frei 
berger,  also  a  competent  business  man,  who 

[279] 


SCOKE    BY    INNINGS 


touched  a  button  and  dictated  the  letter  to 
Shamus  Kehoe  that  established  a  benevolent 
protectorate  over  the  person  of  the  unknown 
McCall.  Thus  do  commercial  interests  en 
croach  upon  science  and  art. 

In  the  hurry  and  bustle  attending  the  South 
ern  training  trip  Shamus  forgot  all  about  Mr. 
Freiberger's  friend.  He  was  more  interested  in 
some  sponsorless  recruits — a  Daly,  a  Callahan, 
two  Murphys,  and  a  scattering  of  McCaffertys, 
Delaneys  and  Shanahans.  He  had  high  hopes 
of  Daly  as  soon  as  he  learned  that  the  young 
man's  first  name  was  Ignatius. 

Mr.  Kehoe 's  immediate  family  also  claimed 
a  share  of  his  attention — for  the  girls,  Cor 
nelia  and  Patricia,  were  to  accompany  their 
parents. 

Cornelia  Kehoe,  aged  nineteen,  was  a  shy, 
dark-haired  slip  of  a  girl,  in  whose  blue  eyes 
dwelt  the  romance  that  is  born  in  every  true 
Irish  heart.  Cornelia  was  a  dreamer,  an 
idealist — a  reader  of  romantic  fiction,  to  whom 
life  was  an  adventure,  an  expedition  into  senti 
mental  byways.  In  Cornelia's  eyes  the  most 
commonplace  individuals  were  apt  to  assume 
strange  disguises  and  noble  attributes.  She 
was  fond  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Marie  Corelli ; 
and  her  father,  who  confined  his  reading  to  the 
annual  Guide,  often  said  he  wished  Corney 
would  read  less  and  eat  more.  Romance  and 
corned  beef  do  not  go  well  together. 

Patricia  Kehoe  was  a  tomboy — freckled- 
faced,  fifteen  and  frank  to  an  amazing  degree. 

[280] 


NINE   ASSISTS   AND   TWO   ERRORS 


Since  babyhood  ballplayers  had  been  her 
friends;  they  were  now  her  idols.  The  one 
great  sorrow  of  her  life  was  that  her  father 
would  not  allow  her  to  wear  a  uniform  and  sit 
on  the  bench. 

"Shame  on  ye,  Patsy!"  chided  Kehoe. 
"Ye 're  gettin'  to  be  a  great  big  girl  now,  an* 
ye  must  wear  skirts  like  other  females.  And, 
annyway,  the  bench  is  no  place  f 'r  the  young 
an'  innicint.  Sometimes,  when  we're  havin' 
our  troubles  to  beat  a  gang  av  Swede  long 
shoremen  an'  the  language  is  runnin'  high  an' 
wild,  I  question  if  'tis  a  fit  place  f 'r  me." 

So  Patricia  watched  the  games  from  the 
grandstand,  and  woe  to  the  Harp  who  made 
an  error — for  Patricia  kept  her  own  score.  She 
exulted  fiercely  over  a  victory  and  mourned 
over  a  defeat,  and  Shamus  Kehoe  often  looked 
after  her  with  a  wistful  shake  of  his  head. 

"Powers  above!"  he  would  mutter.  "What 
a  shortstop  she'd  have  made — if  she'd  only 
been  a  boy!" 

Three  days  after  the  recruits  arrived  in 
Boseville,  Kehoe,  sitting  in  the  hotel  lobby 
after  the  day's  work,  gazed  upon  a  strange 
apparition.  It  took  the  form  of  a  tall,  thin 
youth,  clad  in  advertising-section  clothes,  which 
gave  him  the  appearance  of  having  no  shoul 
ders,  stomach  or  hips.  He  wore  snub-nosed 
tan  shoes  and  a  shaggy  cloth  hat  with  no  more 
than  the  barest  suspicion  of  a  brim — somewhat 
resembling  an  inverted  bowl.  A  great  deal  of 
yellow  hair  was  pushed  sternly  away  from  his 

[281] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


forehead  in  the  general  direction  of  the  nape 
of  his  neck,  and  about  his  three-inch  collar  was 
a  knitted  scarf  of  a  violent  hue.  Behind  the 
stranger  staggered  two  bellboys,  laden  with 
suitcases  and  satchels,  to  say  nothing  of  a  bag 
of  golf  clubs,  a  lawn-tennis  racquet  or  two  and 
a  mandolin  in  a  leather  box. 

"All  dhressed  up  like  a  broken  arm!"  mur 
mured  Shamus  Kehoe.  "An'  'tis  plain  to  be 
seen  that  the  young  man  hates  himself  bitterly. 
Fr'm  the  look  av  him  he's  ayther  the  Duke  av 
Flatbush  or  the  Earl  av  Fifth  Avenay." 

After  the  young  man  had  inscribed  his  name 
upon  the  hotel  register  and  the  elevator  had 
snatched  him  upward  Kehoe  strolled  over  to 
the  desk,  seeking  to  gratify  an  idle  curiosity. 
There,  upon  the  page,  staring  at  him  in  bold, 
round  script,  were  these  words :  Martin  L.  Mc- 
Call,  Boston,  Massachusetts. 

Shamus  Kehoe  made  noises  in  his  throat  and 
waggled  his  fingers  at  the  clerk. 

"Had  ye  speech  with  this  party?"  he  de 
manded,  placing  his  finger  upon  the  signature. 

"Why,  no,"  said  the  clerk.  "He  waltzed 
up  to  the  desk  and  said  he  wanted  the  best  suite 
in  the  house.  I  gave  it  to  him — and  that's  all 
there  was  to  it.  Flossy-looking  boy — eh!" 

"Ye  gave  him  the  best  in  the  house?"  howled 
Kehoe.  "  Then  take  it  away  fr 'm  him !  Chase 
him  over  in  the  Annex,  along  with  the  other 
bushers !  The  best  in  the  house,  says  he !  Who 
does  he  think  he  is — Chris  Matchewson  or  Ty 
Cobb?  Roust  him!" 

[282] 


NINE    ASSISTS    AND    TWO    EEROES 


"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  apologised  the  clerk. 
"I  didn't  know  he  was  one  of  the  team." 

"  He  ain  't ! "  sputtered  Kehoe.  * '  He  ain 't ;  an ' 
ye  can  win  a  swell  bet  f 'r  yerself  that  he  won't 
never  be!  He's  a  friend  av  Freiberger's  is 
what  he  is — bad  luck  to  Mannie  f 'r  wishin'  him 
on  to  me!  But  the  club  is  payin'  his  ixpinses 
the  little  while  he's  here;  so  hump  yerself  an' 
evict  him  fr'm  the  bridal  suite  before  he  takes 
root  an'  grows  fast  to  the  furniture.  Poke  him 
away  in  a  hall  bedroom  somewhere 's  an'  leave 
him  have  McCafferty  f'r  company.  Mac's 
grandfather  come  fr'm  Donegal,  an'  I  took  a 
dislike  to  that  North-av-Ireland  gossoon  the 
first  time  I  laid  eyes  on  him." 

In  ten  minutes  the  clerk  was  back  again, 
nervous  and  more  apologetic  than  ever. 

"He — he  says  he  won't  move." 

"What's  that?"  shouted  Shamus  Kehoe. 
"Lead  me  to  him!  I'll  move  him  so  quick  'twill 
make  his  head  swim ! ' ' 

The  manager  of  the  Harps  burst  into  Mc- 
Call's  room  just  as  that  young  man  was  emerg 
ing  from  the  bathtub.  Under  the  circumstances 
his  self-possession  was  remarkable. 

"G'wan!  Get  out  av  here!"  barked  Kehoe. 
"What  d'ye  think  a  trainin'  camp  is — the 
Waldorf -Asthoriaf" 

"Judging  by  the  appearance  of  the  best 
rooms  in  the  house,  no, ' '  said  Martin  L.  McCall, 
continuing  to  polish  his  shoulders  with  a  bath 
towel.  "And  who  are  you?  The  fireman  or 
the  head  porter?" 

[283] 


SCOEE    BY   INNINGS 


Shamus  choked. 

"My  name  is  Kehoe,"  said  he  with  a  power 
ful  effort  at  self-control  that  made  the  veins 
of  his  neck  stand  out  prominently.  Martin  L. 
McCall  whistled.  Then  he  dropped  the  towel 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Kehoe,"  said  he. 
"I  didn't  mean  to  be  fresh;  I  simply  didn't 
know  who  you  were.  I  apologise  to  you,  sir, 
for  a  rudeness  I  assure  you  was  unintentional." 

Shamus  Kehoe  gulped  a  few  times  and  then 
took  the  proffered  hand  which  met  his  with  a 
quick,  firm  pressure.  Kehoe  liked  men  who 
shook  hands  as  if  they  meant  it;  and,  preju 
diced  as  he  was,  there  was  that  about  this  lean, 
trim,  smiling  lad  which  disarmed  Shamus  and 
left  him  fumbling  for  wrords. 

"I  understand,"  said  McCall,  "that  there  is 
a  question  about  these  rooms.  If  you  don't 
mind  I'll  keep  them,  and  I  expect  to  pay  my 
own  bills  while  I  am  here.  It's  like  this,  sir," 
and  the  boy  slipped  into  the  vernacular:  "I 
may  turn  out  to  be  quite  a  pitcher — and  then 
again  I  may  be  a  piece  of  cheese.  I  wouldn't 
have  the  crust  to  ask  any  ball  club  to  gamble 
my  hotel  bill  on  the  result.  That's  fair  enough, 
isn't  it,  Mr.  Kehoe?"  Again  the  brilliant 
smile. 

"Fair  an'  well  spoken,"  said  Shamus  Kehoe. 
"Say  no  more  about  it.  'Twas  an  unfortunate 
mistake  I  made.  It  ain't  exactly  customary  f 'r 
a  bush  ballplayer  to  have  money,  ye  under 
stand.  I'll  bid  ye  good  evenin'."  And  Sha- 

[284] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    EKRORS 


mus  went  down  in  the  elevator,  shaking  his 
head  in  a  dazed  manner. 

"The  young  diwil  has  a  nice  way  with  him,'* 
thought  Kehoe,  "and  I'll  bet  he's  a  bear  among 
the  women!" 

Later,  when  the  Kehoe  family  were  at  din 
ner,  Martin  L.  McCall  made  a  conspicuous  en 
trance.  He  wore  a  dinner  jacket  of  the  very 
latest  cut;  his  waistcoat  was  the  newest  thing 
devised  by  a  Fifth  Avenue  tailor  to  afflict  the 
sons  of  men ;  and  from  his  collar  to  the  tips  of 
his  patent  leathers  he  was  groomed  within  an 
inch  of  his  life — flawless. 

"Oh,  look,  ma!"  said  Patricia.  "I  guess 
there's  class  to  that!" 

"Humph!"  said  Mrs.  Kehoe.  "Ain't  he  the 
pretty  boy,  though?" 

"Not  handsome,  but  distinguished,"  said 
Cornelia.  "Pa,  why  don't  you  look  like  that 
when  you  dress  up?" 

"The  yanigans  are  all  laughing  at  him,"  said 
Patricia.  "Why,  pa,  he's  bowing  to  you!" 

"So  he  is,  Patsy,"  said  Shamus,  nodding. 
"Ma,  d'ye  mind  the  letter  we  had  fr'm  Frei- 
berger — about  a  pitcher?" 

"That's  never  him!"  exclaimed  Veronica. 

"  It  is  though, ' '  said  Shamus.  ' '  That 's  Mar 
tin  L.  McCall." 

"Is  he  a  ballplayer,  pa?"  demanded  Patricia. 

"The  jury  is  still  out,"  said  Mr.  Kehoe 
drily.  "He  blew  in  this  evenin'  like  a  min- 
sthrel  parade,  with  a  tennis  bat,  some  golfin' 
tools  an'  a  mandoleen.  I'd  say  the  evidence 

[285] 


SCOKE   BY    INNINGS 


was  all  ag'in  him  bein'  a  ballplayer;  but — ye 
never  can  tell,  Patsy.  He  says  himself  he 
dunno  if  he  is  or  not." 

"Oh,  pa!"  squealed  Patricia.  "Introduce 
him  to  us ! " 

"Yes,  do!"  said  Cornelia.  "I  love  a  man 
dolin!" 

"In  good  time,"  grunted  the  father.  "Leave 
me  finish  my  dinner  in  peace." 

"It  must  be  that  some  of  the  Irish  have 
money!"  sighed  Mrs.  Kehoe. 

After  dinner  Mr.  McCall  was  presented  to 
the  Kehoe  family,  and  the  hit  he  made  was 
instantaneous.  He  talked  well,  but  not  too 
much.  He  told  some  good  stories  of  college 
life,  spoke  understandingly  of  baseball  and 
other  sports  and  pastimes,  and  actually  elicited 
a  promise  from  Shamus  to  take  a  trip  round 
the  links  some  morning. 

When  Mrs.  Kehoe  insisted  that  Cornelia  dis 
play  her  talent  for  music,  McCall  complimented 
her  highly  upon  her  rendition  of  Silvery 
Waves;  then  qualified  as  a  critic  by  playing 
the  piano  a  bit  himself,  and  singing  a  stein 
song  in  a  very  fair  barytone  voice. 

Just  before  sleep  claimed  her  that  evening, 
Patricia  summed  up  her  first  impression  of  the 
charming  stranger. 

"He's  the  real  thing,  Corney!"  she  said 
drowsily.  "And  did  you  notice  how  he  called 
me  Miss  Patricia?  These  rough-neck  ball 
players  have  got  to  quit  this  Pat  and  Paddy 
business.  I  won't  stand  for  it!" 

[286] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


In  the  other  room  Shanms  and  his  wife  were 
also  discussing  the  latest  addition  to  the  yani- 
gan  squad. 

"He  has  lovely  manners,"  said  Veronica; 
"and,  annyway,  'tis  nbthin'  against  the  boy 
that  he  has  been  to  college." 

"Well,"  said  Kehoe  with  a  yawn,  "he  ain't 
a  tenor  singer.  That  counts  him  nine  points 
right  off  the  reel!" 

On  the  next  day,  which  was  Friday,  rain  fell 
and  the  ballplayers  were  kept  indoors.  McCall 
appeared  in  a  complete  change  of  costume  and 
spent  most  of  his  time  getting  acquainted  with 
the  other  recruits.  The  McCaffertys  and  the 
Murphys  and  the  Dalys  looked  upon  him  with 
suspicion  at  first,  but  he  found  his  way  to  their 
hearts;  and  before  night  it  was  Martin  and 
Denny  and  Mike  with  them  all.  Ignatius  Daly 
was  the  undisputed  polo  champion  of  the 
squad,  but  McCall  took  him  into  camp  with 
ridiculous  ease;  and  at  three-cushion  billiards 
— which  is  a  grown  man's  game — he  gave  Sha- 
mus  Kehoe  the  worst  beating  the  veteran  had 
suffered  in  years. 

"If  ye  can  handle  a  leather  ball  as  well  as 
ye  can  an  ivory  wan, ' '  said  Kehoe,  ' '  there  '11  be 
nothing  to  it  at  all." 

That  evening,  as  a  special  mark  of  esteem, 
McCall  was  invited  to  dine  with  the  Kehoes; 
and  in  honour  of  the  occasion  he  put  on  what 
Patricia  called  "the  soup  and  fish"  and  Sha- 
mus  referred  to  as  a  "full-dhress  suit." 

The  Kehoes  ordered  fish;  but  there  was  an 
[287] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


embarrassing  pause  when  McCall  made  his 
selection.  Shamus  looked  at  Veronica. 

"Ye  said  beefsteak,  did  ye  not!"  inquired 
Kehoe  at  last  in  the  same  tone  he  would  have 
used  in  asking  the  boy  whether  it  was  true  he 
had  robbed  a  bank  or  burned  down  an  orphan 
asylum. 

"A  tenderloin — rare,  please,"  said  McCall. 

"An'  to-day  Friday!"  whispered  Veronica. 
"Dear,  dear!" 

Thereafter  the  burden  of  the  conversation 
fell  upon  young  shoulders,  but  Kehoe  recovered 
sufficiently  to  ask  a  question  or  two. 

"Ye  have  a  middle  initial,"  said  he.  "Not 
to  be  inquisitive — but  would  the  L  stand  for 
Luke!" 

"  No, "  said  McCall.    « '  It  stands  for  Luther. ' ' 

"Mar-rtin  Luther!"  breathed  Kehoe  softly, 
and  spoke  no  more. 

"McCall  is  an  Irish  name,"  suggested  Ve 
ronica,  stepping  upon  Shamus'  foot  to  bring 
him  out  of  his  trance. 

"  It 's  Scotch  too, ' '  said  McCall.  '  *  My  people 
have  been  in  this  country  for  over  two  hundred 
years ;  but  they  came  originally  from  Scotland, 
I  believe." 

"Presbyterian!"  asked  Veronica,  willing  to 
know  the  worst. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Martin. 

After  the  young  people  had  gone  into  the 
music  room  Kehoe  found  his  tongue. 

"Ah,  be  aisy!"  said  the  charitable  Veronica. 
"Dear  heart  alive,  'tis  not  the  lad's  fault  at 

[288] 


NINE   ASSISTS  AND   TWO   EKROKS 


all!    Could  he  help  it  if  they  brought  him  up 
wrong?" 

"Martin  Luther!"  groaned  Kehoe.  "  'Tis 
enough  to  jinx  the  club  these  ten  years  to  come. 
An'  I  made  certain  his  middle  name  would  be 
Luke!"* 


m 


Martin  Luther  McCall  set  about  conditioning 
his  pitching  arm  with  exquisite  deliberation. 
No  ten-thousand-dollar-a-year  star  ever  sub 
jected  a  lame  "wing"  to  a  more  leisurely 
course  of  training.  Concerning  his  pitching 
ability  there  were  varying  opinions,  but  every 
one  agreed  upon  one  point — he  dressed  the  part 
to  perfection.  The  other  recruits  appeared  in 
stained  and  disreputable  garments — the  cast- 
off  gear  of  many  a  minor  league;  but  the  uni 
form  Martin  Luther  brought  with  him  was  new 
and  it  bore  the  evidences  of  careful  tailoring. 
It  was  a  neat  affair  of  the  softest  white  flannel, 
with  a  tiny  crimson  stripe  running  through  it. 
His  stockings,  cap  and  belt  were  of  solid  crim 
son,  as  was  his  sweater  which  bore  a  great 
white  letter  upon  the  breast.  His  shoes  were 
the  best  that  money  could  buy  and  he  drew 
them  snugly  about  his  slim  ankles  with  broad 
silk  laces. 

When  Martin  Luther  took  the  field  there  was 
a  noticeable  flutter  in  the  grandstand,  where 

*  Note  to  the  scorekeepers — Give  Kehoe  an  error  on 
McCall's  middle  initial. 

[289] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


the  young  women  of  Eoseville  congregated 
daily  to  watch  the  antics  of  the  embryo  big 
leaguers.  It  was  noticed  and  commented  upon 
that  Martin  did  most  of  his  warming  up  as 
close  to  the  grandstand  as  possible,  and  every 
move  he  made  was  a  picture. 

Shamus  Kehoe  watched  McCall  for  the  first 
few  days  and  thereafter  ignored  him  com 
pletely  during  working  hours.  When  the  other 
yanigans  were  beating  out  bunts  or  diving  into 
the  sliding  pit,  Martin  Luther  toiled  gracefully 
in  the  shade  of  the  grandstand.  He  was  quite 
willing  to  plough  through  the  dirt  and  sprint 
to  first  base  with  the  best  of  them,  but  the 
manager  seemed  satisfied  to  worry  along  with 
the  Delaneys  and  the  Dalys. 

Shamus  did  unbend  so  far  as  to  question 
Patrick  Henry  O'Meara,  the  veteran  catcher, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  develop  the  young  pitchers. 

1  'Has  he  got  anything  at  all,  Pat?"  de 
manded  Shamus. 

"If  he  has,"  said  the  gruff  old  fellow,  "  'tis 
safely  concealed  from  me.  Maybe  he's  holdin' 

back  to  give  us  a  surprise ;  but  up  to  date 

O'Meara  closed  the  sentence  by  taking  his  nose 
firmly  between  thumb  and  finger. 

"As  bad  as  that?"  asked  Kehoe  cheerfully. 

"Even  worse,"  said  O'Meara.  "He  has  no 
curves  save  a  wandherin'  roundhouse  thing  that 
is  sad  to  watch,  an'  never  comes  near  the  plate 
but  by  accident.  He  has  less  conthrol  than  a 
blind  henna wk;  an'  when  he  cuts  loose  wid  what 
he  calls  the  fast  wan  he  never  knows  whether 

[290] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


'twill  go  up,  down  or  sideways.  He  wears  rib 
bons  in  his  shoes  an'  makes  soft  eyes  at  all  the 
females;  an'  he  is  the  grandest  little  grand- 
stander  since  Arlie  Latham's  time.  To-day, 
when  he  should  have  been  wor-rkin'  in  the  hot 
sun  an'  loosenin'  up  that  dead  arm  of  his,  he 
was  up  in  the  last  row  av  the  shed,  murmurin' 
kind  words  to  a  dizzy  blonde.  Outside  av  these 
small  failin's,  Shamus,  the  lad  is  a  great  pitcher 
an'  intirely  all  right  in  every  respect.  Wid 
all  his  faults  I  love  him  still.  I  did  not  think 
I  would,  but  I  do.  The  rascal  has  the  instincts 
of  a  gintleman." 

When  the  regulars  arrived  in  camp  they  took 
a  deep  interest  in  Martin  Luther,  but  were  civil 
to  him  because  Patricia  introduced  him  as  a 
friend  and  bade  them  behave.  On  the  next 
evening  Bartholomew  Burke,  Mixed-ale  Mulli 
gan,  Windy  Jawnny  O'Brien  and  Francis  X. 
Shea  paid  a  visit  to  Martin  Luther's  rooms 
while  he  was  absent.  By  way  of  reminding 
him  that  the  real  ballplayers  were  in  town  they 
rearranged  the  furniture  to  a  certain  extent, 
unpacked  three  trunks  and  scattered  the  con 
tents  lavishly,  put  the  golf  clubs  to  bed  in  the 
bathtub,  hung  the  mandolin  on  the  fire-escape 
—and  departed,  leaving  ruin  and  desolation  be 
hind  them.  This  is  one  of  the  oldest  and  best 
training-camp  jokes  in  the  world. 

Martin  Luther  went  to  his  rooms  at  ten 
o'clock  and  the  Harps  waited  patiently  in  the 
lobby,  expecting  to  hear  from  him.  They  were 
disappointed.  McCall  worked  like  a  beaver 

[291] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


until  three  in  the  morning,  restoring  order  and 
collecting  his  effects,  and  thereafter  he  never 
so  much  as  breathed  a  word  about  the  ex 
perience. 

This  was  the  first  test,  and  he  passed  it  with 
a  rating  of  one  hundred  per  cent.  Had  he 
summoned  bellboys  to  his  aid  his  marking 
would  have  been  less.  Had  he  squealed  zero 
would  have  been  his  portion. 

The  next  night  he  was  invited  to  sit  in  a 
friendly  little  poker  game  with  Costigan,  Shea, 
Tierney,  Prendergast  and  O'Malley — all  ex 
perts  of  note  and  distinction,  and  recognised 
as  such  from  Boston  to  St.  Louis.  Martin 
Luther  played  a  very  stiff  game  for  one  so 
young  and  inexperienced,  and  displayed  re 
markable  judgment  in  the  values  of  the  hands 
he  held.  The  evening's  entertainment  cost  him 
exactly  eighty-five  dollars  and  forty  cents.  At 
eleven  o'clock  he  rose  and  stretched  his  arms 
over  his  head. 

"Some  rainy  day,  when  you  fellows  haven't 
got  anything  to  do, ' '  said  he,  * '  I  wish  you  would 
teach  me  this  game.  I  learned  something  at 
college  that  they  told  me  was  poker.  They 
must  have  been  kidding  me.  Good  night,  all! 
We  bushers  have  to  be  in  the  hay  by  eleven." 

"Well!"  said  Red  Timothy  Tierney  as  the 
door  closed  behind  the  neophyte. 

"He's  there  like  a  duck!"  said  four  Harps, 
speaking  as  one. 

"He  is  so!"  chuckled  Red  Timothy.  "If 
you  want  to  know  what's  in  a  guy  get  him  off 

[292] 


NINE   ASSISTS   AND   TWO   EKRORS 


a  big  loser  in  a  poker  game  when  the  car-rds 
are  runnin'  agin'  him.  Hands  that  a  man  can 
only  call  on  will  make  the  best  of  'em  crab 
sometimes.  This  lad  never  had  the  smile 
wiped  off  his  face  all  the  evenin'.  He's  a 
nice  loser  an'  a  dead  game  sport.  I'm  for 
him." 

Thus  Martin  Luther  passed  a  second  acid 
test,  and  after  that  a  third  and  a  fourth.  The 
Harps  liked  him;  they  could  not  help  them 
selves.  They  were  inclined  to  laugh  at  him 
for  his  too  evident  interest  in  "skirts,"  and 
as  a  pitcher  they  voted  him  the  best-dressed 
actor  in  any  league;  but  when  it  came  to  the 
boy  himself  there  were  no  dissenting  votes. 
Martin  Luther  was  absolutely  and  emphatically 
all  right ! 

Veronica  Kehoe  took  a  motherly  interest  in 
him  and  found  herself  able  at  times  to  forget 
his  Scotch  Presbyterian  ancestry.  Patricia 
clung  to  him  loyally,  even  after  watching  him 
work  for  several  days — in  itself  a  fine  tribute 
to  a  winning  personality.  She  would  not  allow 
even  her  father  to  say  a  word  against  his 
pitching. 

Cornelia  was  often  seen  in  his  company  after 
she  learned  that  he  thought  Kenilworth  was 
the  greatest  novel  ever  written;  and  between 
times  he  taught  her  to  play  tennis  and  golf  and 
gave  her  lessons  on  the  mandolin. 

He  also  won  a  silk  hat  from  Shamus  Kehoe 
who  claimed  that  no  man  living  could  drive 
any  sort  of  ball  over  the  centre-field  fence  at 

[293] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


the  park — a  distance  of  almost  six  hundred  feet. 
Martin  took  a  brassy  and,  dropping  three  golf 
balls  in  the  grass  by  the  home  plate,  won  the 
bet,  with  yards  to  spare.  But  golf  and  tennis 
do  not  qualify  a  man  for  the  big  league ;  and  as 
training  progressed  Shamus  Kehoe  began  to 
weed  out  the  least  promising  recruits. 

"Old  lady,"  said  he  one  evening  to  the  wife 
of  his  bosom,  "I'm  thinkin'  I  should  be  sayin' 
something  to  Martin.  'Tis  not  fair  to  the  lad 
to  be  keep  in'  him  hangin'  on  here,  spendin'  his 
money  an'  wastin'  his  time.  He'd  much  better 
be  makin'  shoes  than  monkeyin'  with  pro 
fessional  baseball." 

"Break  it  to  him  gently,  dear  heart,"  said 
Veronica.  "Remember  he's  as  sensitive  as  a 
girl." 

"I  will  that,"  said  Shamus. 

Following  out  this  charitable  impulse  Mr. 
Kehoe  found  Martin  Luther  sitting  upon  the 
porch  alone,  looking  at  the  rising  moon. 

"Well,  me  boy,"  said  Shamus,  dropping  into 
a  chair,  "I'm  afraid  I  have  bad  news  f'r  ye. 
As  a  pitcher  ye 're  an  awful  thing." 

Martin's  response  to  this  delicate  opening 
was  unexpected.  "Right  you  are!"  said  he. 
"And  it's  because  of  that  I'm  sitting  here 
looking  at  the  moon.  I've  got  the  blues,  Mr. 
Kehoe — and  I've  got  'em  bad!" 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,  lad,"  said  Shamus, 
laying  his  big,  red  hand  upon  Martin's  arm. 
"Ballplayin'  is  a  bad  business  f'r  the  best  av 
thim.  A  few  years  an'  ye 're  done.  Better  a 

[294] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


boy  should  be  learnin'  something  that'll  be  av 
use  to  him  all  his  life." 

Martin  Luther  laughed  the  hollow  ghost  of 
a  laugh. 

"I  never  expected  to  make  a  business  out  of 
baseball,"  said  he.  "I  just  wanted  to  see 
whether  I  had  the  goods  or  not — that  was  all. 
I  wish  that  was  the  worst  of  my  troubles." 

"Maybe  I  could  offer  ye  some  advice,"  said 
Shamus,  regarding  him  kindly. 

"I've  had  a  lot  to  do  with  young  men,  first 
an'  last;  an'  I've  given  some  av  thim  the  right 
steer.  What's  eatin'  ye,  Martin?  Ye  say  ye 're 
grievin'  f 'r  that  ye 're  such  a  bad  pitcher,  an' 
the  next  minute  ye  say  ye  don't  care  whether 
ye  pitch  or  not.  'Tis  queer  talk,  son." 

"It's  a  queer  situation  too,"  said  Martin 
Luther,  and  lapsed  into  silence. 

"Put  all  the  cards  on  the  table,"  said  Sha 
mus.  "Ye 're  a  good  lad,  an'  if  I  can  help  ye 
it  shall  be  done." 

Martin  Luther  McCall  drew  a  long,  deep 
breath. 

"Mr.  Kehoe,"  said  he,  "I'm  in  love." 

"Glory  be!"  ejaculated  the  manager.  "An' 
that's  the  way  the  cat  hops!  I'm  afraid  I  can 
do  nothin'  f'r  ye,  Martin." 

"Nobody  can,"  said  the  boy.  "But  if  I  was 
a  pitcher  I  could  do  something  for  myself." 

"What's  that!"  demanded  Shamus,  taking 
his  feet  from  the  railing  and  throwing  away 
his  cigar.  "How  would  pitchin'  have  anything 
to  do  with  it"?  I  don't  follow  ye." 

[295] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


"Well,  it's  like  this,"  said  Martin:  "This 
girl  is  queer." 

' '  God  be  good  to  us ! "  said  Shamus  piously. 
"  They  're  all  that  way,  Martin,  lad." 

"She's  queer,"  repeated  Martin.  "She  ad 
mires  baseball  players." 

"There's  nothin'  queer  about  that  at  all," 
said  Kehoe,  thinking  of  his  younger  days  and 
the  lovely  creature  who  refused  a  cigar  drum 
mer,  an  engineer  and  three  brakemen  for  love 
of  a  dashing  shortstop. 

"I  mean  that  she's  got  a  sort  of  a  bug  about 
it, ' '  said  Martin  Luther  patiently.  '  *  She  makes 
heroes  out  of  'em." 

"Humph!"  said  Shamus.  "Have  I — seen 
the  lady,  maybe?" 

"It's  quite  likely,"  said  Martin  Luther. 
"She's  here  in  town  on  a  visit — comes  to  the 
ball  park  sometimes.  When  I  saw  how  she  felt 
about  ballplayers  I  sort  of  stalled  along.  She 
got  the  idea  that  I  was  quite  a  pitcher  and  I — 
well,  I  didn't  deny  it — I  didn't  have  the  nerve 
to  tell  her  the  truth;  and  now  it's  got  to  the 
point  where  she  expects  me  to  make  good — and 
I'm  not  there!" 

"She  knows  little  about  the  game,  I  take  it," 
said  Shamus,  "else  ye  wouldn't  have  got  away 
with  your  bluff  thus  far." 

Martin  winced. 

"On  the  level,"  he  asked,  nam  I  as  bad  as 
that!" 

Kehoe  nodded. 

"Patsy  has  had  your  number  fr'm  the  first 
[296] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


day,"  said  he.  "  'Tis  as  plain  as  the  nose  on 
your  face  that  ye  will  never  be  a  pitcher." 

Martin  Luther  sighed  heavily. 

"This  girl  knows  the  practice  games  begin 
to-morrow,"  said  he,  "and  she  expects  me  to 
go  in  there  and  pitch.  If  I  could  get  away  with 
it  only  once — only  once!" 

Shamus  Kehoe  shifted  his  chair  and  stared 
into  the  boy's  face  incredulously. 

"Ye  think  it  would  make  a  difference?"  he 
asked. 

"All  the  difference  in  the  world!"  said  Mar 
tin.  "But  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  it? 
If  I  went  in  there  they'd  hammer  me  all  over 
the  lot." 

"Yes,"  said  Kehoe.  "They  would.  They 
would  so." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Sentiment,  the 
birthright  of  the  Irish,  was  stirring  in  the 
depths  of  Shamus  Kehoe 's  heart.  It  brought 
his  youth  back  to  him  and  the  memories  of  the 
days  when  he  walked  with  Veronica  Shaugh- 
nessy — the  light  in  her  eyes. 

"She's  a  good  girl,  me  son?"  asked  Shamus 
softly. 

"So  good  that  it  seems  strange  she 
should  care  for  me  at  all,"  said  Martin 
humbly. 

"  'Tis  not  like  ye  to  be  so  meek,"  said  Sha 
mus.  "What  makes  ye  think  'tis  love  an'  not 
a  mere  passin'  fancy?" 

"When  you  met  Mrs.  Kehoe,"  countered 
Martin  Luther,  "did  you  have  to  stop  and  ask 

[297] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


yourself   any   questions'?     You    knew,    didn't 
you?" 

"Yes,  me  son — I  knew."  For  the  feeling  in 
the  boy's  voice  Shamus  could  have  forgiven 
him  everything — even  his  middle  name,  had  he 
thought  of  it.  He  thought  of  other  things  in 
stead — the  moon,  for  instance ;  and  remem 
bered  that  it  was  the  same  one  which  shone 
down  on  his  own  lovemaking.  And  when  an 
Irishman  stares  at  that  calm  silver  face  long 
enough  and  recalls  all  that  it  has  seen  of  the 
best  of  him — the  joy  and  the  sorrow — his  calm 
judgment  is  apt  to  suffer  a  severe  moonstroke. 

"But  what's  the  use?"  mourned  Martin 
Luther.  '  '  She  thinks  I  'm  a  great  pitcher — and 
I'm  a  piece  of  cheese!" 

Shamus  Kehoe  spoke  suddenly,  his  voice 
thick  with  moonbeams  and  gruff  with  newborn 
resolution. 

"Ar-re  ye  game?"  he  demanded.  "Ye '11 
take  a  chance?" 

"On  what?" 

"On  the  girl!"  said  Kehoe.  "Suppose  ye 
had  a  chance  to  pitch  agin  the  reg'lars  to-mor 
row — would  ye  be  willin'  to  try?" 

"I'm  not  afraid — if  that's  what  you  mean," 
said  Martin  slowly.  "She'll  have  to  know 
sometime.  Yes,  I'm  game." 

"Glory!"  exclaimed  Kehoe.  "I'll  send  ye 
in  to-morrow.  Six  innin's  is  all  we  play  the 
first  week.  And,  Martin?" 

"What,  sir?" 

"Don't  leave  it  get  yer  goat.     Often  I've 
[298] 


NINE    ASSISTS    AND    TWO    ERRORS 


seen  'em  this  early  in  the  season  when  they 
could  not  hit  a  mess  av  balloons." 

Long  after  Martin  Luther  had  gone  indoors 
Shamus  Kehoe  sat  on  the  porch  and  looked  at 
the  moon. 

"Ah,  'tis  a  grand  thing  to  be  young!"  he 
mused.  "It  is  so!  If  he  wins  the  game  he 
wins  the  gir-rl.  God  forgive  me  f'r  a  sinti- 
mintal  old  fool,  but  it  runs  in  me  mind  that  the 
lad  will  win  to-morrow,  even  if  we  have  to  crowd 
the  game  on  to  him  unbeknownst.  Glory!  All 
me  life  have  I  been  readin'  mushy  tales  about 
the  heroic  young  pitcher  an'  the  lovely  girl  in 
the  grandstand.  I  was  almost  believin'  there 
wasn't  anny  such  animal,  an'  here  I  run  into  it 
in  real  life !  .  .  .  I  wonder  now,  is  it  the 
blonde  or  the  wan  in  the  red  hat?" 

rv 

The  first  practice  game  of  the  season  is  al 
ways  more  or  less  of  a  joke  to  the  seasoned 
veterans.  Almost  anything  may  happen  that 
early  in  the  spring,  and  almost  everything  does ; 
but  the  word  Kehoe  passed  along  to  his  hired 
men  convinced  them  there  was  still  something 
new  under  the  sun. 

"  'Tis  like  this,  boys,"  Shamus  said:  "The 
lad  is  goin'  back  home  to  make  shoes.  He  is — 
bar  none — the  worst  pitcher  in  the  world.  His 
heart  is  set  on  winnin'  wan  game;  an',  speakin' 
strictly  in  confidence,  there  is  a  girl  tangled  up 
in  it.  I  look  to  ye,  as  true  Irishmin,  to  see 

[299] 


SCOKE   BY   INNINGS 


that  the  lad  gets  away  with  it.  An'  I'll  fine  the 
man  wan  hundhred  bones  who  blabs  after 
ward  ! ' ' 

To  a  man  the  Harps  entered  enthusiastically 
into  the  spirit  of  the  thing.  To  be  ordered  to 
throw  a  game  was  a  novelty  and,  under  the 
circumstances,  a  joke — though  Patrick  Henry 
O'Meara,  selected  to  catch  for  the  yanigans  be 
cause  of  his  familiarity  with  Martin's  erratic 
delivery,  expressed  grave  doubts  and  drooled 
pessimistically  all  the  way  from  the  hotel  to 
the  baseball  park. 

"It  will  be  no  cinch,  I  warn  ye,"  said  that 
honest  man  to  Messrs.  Gilligan,  Finnigan  and 
Costigan.  "Do  not  think  'tis  a  mere  matter 
of  strikin'  out  in  a  pinch.  He  will  not  get 
more  than  seven  or  nine  balls  over  the  plate 
all  day.  His  conthrol  this  mor-rnin'  was  un 
usual  wide  an'  promiscuous.  Whoever  catches 
f'r  ye  had  better  heave  wan  to  hell-an'-gone 
occasionally  an'  let  in  a  mess  av  runs.  Martin 
will  need  thim." 

"Nix!"  said  Gilligan.  "If  we  hippodrome 
it  he'll  tumble  an'  so  will  everybody  else.  It's 
got  to  be  a  close  score.  Since  we're  out  to  toss 
a  game,  let's  do  it  right!" 

Shamus  Kehoe  sat  on  the  bench  and  scanned 
the  crowd  in  the  grandstand  with  deep  interest. 

"Pickin'  wan  girl  out  av  that  flock  is  a  tough 
job,"  said  he  to  Francis  X.  Shea.  "Yer  eyes 
are  better  than  mine.  Do  ye  see  annything  av 
a  nervous  blonde  who  looks  as  if  her  future 
happiness  is  thremblin'  in  the  balance!" 

[300] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


Patrick  Henry  O'Meara,  catching  McCall's 
practice  shoots,  offered  encouragement  and 
advice. 

"All  ye  need  is  conthrol,"  said  he.  "Their 
battin'  eyes  are  ba-ad,  an'  their  legs  are  stiff 
an'  sore.  Ye  can  beat  thim  by  keepin'  the  ball 
over  the  plate.  ConthroPll  do  it." 

Whereupon  Martin  Luther  proceeded  to 
heave  a  few  that  caused  O'Meara  to  groan. 

Windy  Jawnny  O'Brien  was  selected  as  um 
pire  and  privately  instructed  to  call  everything 
a  strike  that  came  within  reaching  distance  of 
the  plate. 

Kehoe  gave  the  signal  and  the  yanigans 
trotted  to  their  places — alert,  overanxious  and 
firmly  convinced  that  their  future  careers  de 
pended  upon  making  a  favourable  showing 
against  the  veterans.  Contrary  to  his  custom, 
Martin  Luther  did  not  make  a  theatrical  en 
trance.  He  was  the  first  man  on  the  diamond 
— pale,  nervous  to  a  pitiable  degree,  but  plainly 
determined  to  give  the  veterans  the  best  that 
was  in  him.  If  he  heard  the  pattering  of 
gloves  in  the  grandstand  he  gave  no  sign. 

Little  Malachy  Dugan  was  first  at  bat.  Mar 
tin  Luther,  observing  O'Meara  sign  for  a  fast 
ball,  whirled  his  arm  like  a  dervish  and  threw 
the  fastest  one  in  stock.  Malachy  Dugan 
leaped  nimbly  away  from  the  plate;  but,  even 
so,  the  ball  grazed  the  tip  of  his  nose.  This 
so  unnerved  Martin  that,  in  spite  of  all  Jawnny 
O'Brien  could  do,  Malachy  had  a  base  on  balls 
forced  upon  him. 

[301] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


"Tell  him  to  catch  me  off  first,"  whispered 
Dugan  to  O'Meara  as  he  left  the  plate.  "I'll 
take  an  awful  lead." 

Patrick  Henry  strolled  into  the  diamond, 
mask  in  hand. 

"F'r  the  love  av  Heaven,"  he  pleaded, 
"more  conthrol  an'  less  speed!  Take  y'r  time 
an'  t'row  'em  on  the  side  where  ye  see  the  bat 
stickin'  out.  Try  a  peg  to  first ;  Dugan  is  often 
caught  napping." 

Martin  Luther  cuddled  the  ball  under  his 
chin ;  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  saw  Malachy 
creeping  down  the  baseline.  There  was  a  shrill 
chorus  of  feminine  squeals  and  twitterings  as 
Martin  whirled  and  threw  the  ball  toward  Mc- 
Cafferty,  the  recruit  first  baseman.  It  was 
Dugan  he  hoped  to  catch  napping,  but  it  was 
McCafferty  who  was  sound  asleep — and  the  ball 
whizzed  on  into  right  field.  There  was  nothing 
for  Dugan  to  do  but  to  continue  on  his  way, 
which  he  did,  calling  down  the  black  curse  upon 
all  the  McCaffertys,  their  heirs  and  assigns 
forever.  He  stopped  at  third  base. 

"Mulligan,"  breathed  O'Meara  into  the  ear 
of  the  next  batter,  "do  ye  shpill  wan  down  to 
Martin  an'  leave  him  t'row  Dugan  out  at  the 
plate.  'Twill  make  a  gran'  play  f'r  him  an* 
may  cheer  him  up." 

Mixed-ale  Mulligan's  great  specialty  was 
pushing  a  ball  through  a  gap  in  the  infield ;  and 
it  was  no  trouble  for  him  to  shorten  the  grip 
on  his  bat  and  send  the  sphere  hopping  di 
rectly  at  Martin. 

[302] 


NINE   ASSISTS   AND   TWO   ERRORS 


"Home  wid  it!  Home  wid  it!"  howled 
O'Meara. 

Martin  Luther  rushed  forward  to  meet  the 
ball,  juggled  it  for  an  instant  and  then  hurled 
it  at  0  'Meara  with  all  his  strength.  The  throw 
was  high  and  wide,  but  Patrick  Henry  swept  it 
into  his  capacious  mitt  and  stooped  to  tag  the 
sliding  Dugan.  He  missed  him  by  at  least 
eighteen  inches. 

"Ye 're  out!"  snapped  Umpire  O'Brien 
sternly;  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Mala- 
chy  Dugan  took  the  worst  of  a  decision  at  the 
home  plate  without  trying  to  pull  the  buttons 
off  the  umpire's  coat. 

"What  kind  of  baseball  is  that?"  demanded 
Patricia  Kehoe  of  her  sister  Cornelia.  "That 
lobster  bunted — bunted  with  a  man  on  third 
base  and  nobody  out!  Of  course  it's  only  a 
practice  game,  but  a  man  ought  to  be  fined  for 
'pulling  a  bone'  like  that." 

Finnigan,  the  next  batter,  stood  still  while 
two  atrocious  strikes  were  called  on  him,  and 
then  swung  brazenly  at  one  a  foot  over  his 
head.  He  missed  it  as  far  as  possible. 

"A-a-ah!"  scolded  Patricia.  "What's  the 
matter  with  Wolfe  Tone  ?  He  went  after  a  wild 
pitch!" 

Gallegher,  next  up,  contrived  to  end  the 
inning  with  a  weak  infield  fly  and  the  grand 
stand  cheered  Martin  Luther  hysterically  as  he 
went  to  the  yanigan  bench. 

"Make  it  a  close  score!"  ordered  Kehoe  as 
the  Harps  took  the  field. 

[303] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


Eed  Timothy  Tierney,  whose  left  arm  is 
famed  in  song  and  story,  mowed  down  the  re 
cruits  with  slow,  tantalising  drops  and  wide 
curve  balls,  and  three  men  fell  before  him  in 
order. 

In  the  second  inning  Martin  Luther  essayed 
a  few  curves  on  his  own  account,  which  caused 
O'Meara  to  leap  about  like  an  agitated  bull 
frog,  cursing  wildly  under  his  breath. 

One  of  these  random  shots  smote  Aloysius 
Gilligan,  the  first  batter,  a  resounding  trump 
in  the  ribs  and  he  went  to  first  base.  Tad 
Costigan  did  his  honest  best  to  force  Aloysius 
at  second  base  and  would  surely  have  succeeded 
had  not  Ignatius  Daly,  the  shortstop,  fumbled 
the  ball,  both  men  being  safe. 

"Now  then,"  said  Shamus  to  Francis  Xavier 
Shea,  "help  him  out  av  the  hole — poor  lad!" 

Shea,  first  ascertaining  the  exact  position  of 
Dominick  Murphy,  the  recruit  third  baseman, 
hit  the  ball  as  straight  to  him  as  he  knew  how. 

Dominick  made  a  nice  pickup,  rushed  to  third 
ahead  of  Gilligan  and  then  whizzed  the  ball 
across  the  diamond  to  McCafferty  in  time  to 
.double  Shea. 

"Aw,  what  are  those  fool  women  clapping 
about?"  sniffed  the  keen-eyed  Patricia.  "The 
play  at  third  was  all  right,  but  Shea  stumbled 
getting  away  from  the  plate  and  it  took  him 
twenty  minutes  to  get  started  again!  They're 
playing  like  a  lot  of  apple-women." 

Bartholomew  Burke,  the  catcher,  who  had 
some  of  the  instincts  of  a  dramatist,  took  three 

[304] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    EREOES 


terrific  swings  at  three  pitched  balls  and  closed 
the  second  inning. 

''Easy  there!"  cautioned  O'Meara.  "That 
looked  pretty  raw." 

"Aw,  what  t'hell!"  growled  Burke.  "I 
ribbed  up  a  swell  exit  f 'r  him,  didn't  I!" 

The  Harps  deserve  no  credit  for  holding  the 
recruits  runless  for  five  innings ;  but  in  holding 
themselves  in  like  case  for  the  same  length  of 
time  they  performed  a  feat  seldom  if  ever 
equalled  in  baseball  history.  Martin  Luther, 
instead  of  settling  down,  grew  worse  with  each 
inning,  and  seemed  determined  to  lose  the  game 
in  spite  of  the  stern  opposition  of  nine  experi 
enced  and  resourceful  men. 

It  was  in  the  fourth  session  that  Patricia 
Kehoe  marched  out  of  the  grandstand  and  left 
the  park,  with  fire  in  her  eyes. 

"I'm  as  game  as  anybody,"  said  she  to 
Cornelia;  "but  I  can't  stand  for  this!  Think 
of  that  fool  of  a  Shea  trying  to  steal  second— 
with  the  bases  full !  A  Swede  did  that  once  in 
the  National  League  and  they  laughed  him  out 
of  baseball ! 

"Martin  is  in  there  without  a  thing  in  the 
world  but  a  glove  and  a  lovely  disposition, 
and  they  ought  to  be  hitting  him  all  over  the 
place.  You  can  stay  if  you  want  to,  but  I'm 
going.  I  think  they're  all  crazy  with  the 
heat." 

By  inventing  miracles  upon  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  and  contriving  errors  of  omission  and 
commission,  the  Harps  managed  to  struggle  to 

[305] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


the  end  of  the  fifth  inning  without  a  run;  and 
Shamus  Kehoe  offered  himself  a  fresh  chew 
of  tobacco  and  summed  up  the  situation 
tersely : 

" Glory  be!"  said  he.  "I  had  no  notion 
'twould  be  so  raw.  Hurry  an'  get  it  over — 'tis 
makin'  me  ill." 

Gallegher  and  Gilligan  hastened  to  retire 
themselves,  but  Tad  Costigan  made  an  un 
pardonable  blunder  and  was  forced  to  do  some 
quick  thinking  in  order  to  redeem  himself. 

Tad  took  a  careless  swing  at  the  first  ball 
pitched  and  accidentally  connected  with  it.  It 
rolled  to  the  centre-field  fence — an  honest  home 
run ;  but  Tad  was  thinking  hard  as  he  galloped 
down  to  first  base. 

"The  miserable  fool!"  grunted  Umpire 
O'Brien.  "No— 'tis  all  right,  O'Meara!  He 
cut  first  base  by  ten  feet — an'  McCafferty  seen 
him  do  it." 

When  the  ball  came  back  into  the  diamond 
McCafferty  yelled  for  it  and  Jawnny  O'Brien 
soberly  declared  Costigan  out  for  failing  to 
touch  first  base.  Tad  howled  like  a  wounded 
wolf,  and  Dugan,  Finnigan  and  Shea  had  their 
hands  full  to  keep  him  from  assaulting  the 
umpire.  It  was  all  very  realistic  and  thrilling ; 
but,  even  as  he  struggled,  Costigan  was 
saying : 

"I  took  no  chance.  I  missed  'em  all  on  the 
trip  round.  Did  ye  notice?" 

The  recruits  swarmed  to  the  bench  to  take 
their  last  turn  at  bat. 

[306] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


"Let's  have  a  run,  fellows,"  pleaded  Martin 
Luther.  "Who  hits  first?" 

"Little  me,"  said  O'Meara.  "An'  if  I  get 
on,  Martin,  bust  wan  a  mile — d'ye  hear?" 

Judge  Jimmy  0 'Houlihan  had  succeeded 
Tierney  in  the  box  for  the  regulars.  The 
descendant  of  Irish  kings  winked  openly  at 
Patrick  Henry  and  threw  him  a  straight  ball, 
waist-high  and  on  the  outside — in  the  very  spot 
where  O'Meara  always  liked  them  best. 

The  fat  old  catcher  sent  a  humming  grounder 
down  toward  Dugan  at  short,  who  dashed  for 
ward,  made  a  snatch  at  the  ball  and,  missing 
it  by  a  hair's-breadth,  executed  something  very 
like  a  drop  kick,  which  gave  the  slow-moving 
O'Meara  time  to  reach  second  base. 

"Fine  wor-rk,  Malachy,  me  son!"  wheezed 
the  old  gentleman.  "  'Tis  a  gran'  stage  set- 
tin'  f'r  Martin.  If  he  can  hit  the  ball  at  all 
he's  a  hero — an'  he  wins  his  own  game." 

Martin  Luther  advanced  to  the  plate,  clutch 
ing  a  long,  heavy  bat.  The  grandstand  broke 
into  applause,  with  here  and  there  a  flutter  of  a 
handkerchief.  The  boy  did  not  hear  it.  His 
face  was  white,  his  jaw  was  set  at  a  pugnacious 
angle,  and  his  eyes  glittered  with  stern  de 
termination.  He  knocked  the  dirt  from  his 
spikes,  rubbed  dust  on  his  palms  and  crouched, 
every  muscle  tense,  the  bat  jerking  in  short, 
nervous  circles. 

Judge  Jimmy  tied  himself  in  a  knot  and 
stood  on  one  leg,  flinging  the  other  one  high 
in  the  air;  but  the  ball  that  was  born  of  such 

[307] 


SCOKE    BY    INNINGS 


cataclasmic  effort  wabbled  feebly  up  to  the 
plate — a  fair,  fat  mark  for  any  but  a  blind  man. 
Martin  Luther  whipped  the  bat  back  round  his 
neck  and  stepped  briskly  forward,  swinging 
with  every  ounce  of  his  eager  young  strength. 
There  was  a  solid  crash;  a  streak  of  white  be 
tween  short  and  third ;  a  puff  of  dust  on  the  far 
green;  a  swirl  of  outfielders'  flying  legs — and, 
in  the  midst  of  a  cackling  ovation  from  the 
stand  and  joyful  whoops  from  the  yanigans, 
Patrick  Henry  O'Meara  came  trundling  home 
with  the  run  that  won  the  game.  And  nobody 
seemed  to  notice  that  Aloysius  Gilligan  ran  in 
the  wrong  direction. 

"  Glory  be!"  chuckled  Shamus  Kehoe. 
"  "Tis  exactly  the  way  it  always  happens  in 
the  magazines — the  hero  wins  his  own  game  in 
the  last  innin'.  I'll  believe  anny thing  after 
this."* 


Of  course  it  was  too  good  to  keep.  That 
evening  after  dinner  Shamus  Kehoe  sat  on  the 
porch  with  Veronica  and  they  looked  at  the 
moon. 

"My,  but  Patreeshy  was  mad  as  a  hornet 
when  she  came  home  from  the  park  this  after 
noon!"  said  Mrs.  Kehoe.  "By  what  she  says, 
the  boys  played  an  awful  game.  What  ailed 
thim?" 

*  Note  to  the  scorekeepers — This  is  the  place  to  divide  the 
nine  assists. 

[308] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


"Ah,  that's  a  secret!"  said  Shamus;  and  be 
cause  it  was  he  told  Veronica  the  whole  story 
from  beginning  to  end. 

"  'Twas  a  fearful  struggle,"  said  he  in  con 
clusion;  "but  we  finally  forced  it  upon  him. 
That  poor  misbeguidsd  girl  of  his  thinks  he's  a 
pitcher;  an'  it  ain't  our  fault  if  he  didn't  have 
all  the  earmarks  av  a  Chris  Matchewson.  The 
boys  certainly  done  noble!" 

Being  a  woman,  Veronica  noticed  that 
Shamus  had  overlooked  the  most  important 
point  in  the  narrative. 

"Who  is  this  girl?"  she  demanded. 

"He  did  not  say,"  said  Shamus;  "but  I  have 
an  idea  'tis  the  large  blonde  who's  at  the  park 
so  reg'lar.  O'Meara  see  him  talkin'  with 
her." 

"Humph!"  said  Veronica  scornfully.  "If 
she's  the  same  girl  I  see  traipsin'  about  the 
streets  with  a  poodle  dog,  she 's  not  good  enough 
f'rhim." 

"Martin  is  no  child!"  argued  Shamus. 
"He's  seen  plenty  av  girls.  I'd  trust  the  boy 
to  know  which  wan  he  wants." 

"All  men  are  fools  about  women,"  said 
Veronica  sternly;  "an'  I'll  have  ye  to  know, 
Shamus,  that  ye 're  no  fit  figure  f'r  a  Cupid! 
Ye  should  have  kept  out  av  it.  Hush!  Here 
comes  the  lad  now,  with  the  girls." 

"What  do  you  think  of  him,  ma — getting 
away  with  his  own  game  in  the  last  inning  ?" 
asked  Patricia. 

"I've  just  been  hearin'  about  it,  Martin," 

[309] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


said  Mrs.  Kehoe.     ''When  are  we  to  congratu 
late  ye?" 

"Begin  now!"  said  Martin  Luther;  and 
stooping  quickly  he  imprinted  a  rousing  kiss 
upon  the  plump  cheek  of  that  astounded 
lady. 

"Bless  the  boy!"  sputtered  Veronica,  blush 
ing  furiously.  "I  sh'd  box  your  ears  f'r  that, 
Martin!  Where's  the  girl?" 

"Here  she  is,"  said  Martin,  taking  Cornelia's 
hand.  ' '  We  're  engaged ! ' ' 

"Ye 're  what?"  shouted  Shamus,  leaping  to 
his  feet. 

' '  Dear  heart  alive ! ' '  gasped  Veronica.  *  *  My 
Cornelia — ingaged ! ' ' 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that?" 
squealed  Patricia,  launching  herself  upon 
Martin  Luther  like  a  young  thunderbolt. 
"Now  I  can  never  be  anything  but  a  sister  to 
you,  Martin!  You  may  kiss  me  too!" 

"Will  you  give  her  to  me,  sir?"  asked  Martin 
anxiously. 

Shamus  Kehoe  glared  and  swallowed  hard. 

"Do  ye  want  him,  Corney!"  he  asked  at 
length. 

The  girl  moved  closer  to  Martin  Luther  and 
leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Take  her!"  exploded  Shamus,  and  under 
his  breath  he  said: 

"  'Tis  the  second  time  I've  given  her  to  him 
— the  rascal!" 

Patricia  stood  on  tiptoe  and  whispered  in 
Martin's  ear. 

[310] 


NINE    ASSISTS   AND    TWO    ERRORS 


"I  hope  you'll  be  a  better  husband  than  you 
are  a  pitcher,"  she  said. 

"I  hope  so  too,"  said  Martin  Luther. 

Shamus  Kehoe  sat  down  heavily  and  stared 
at  the  moon.  "Glory  be!"  he  murmured. 
"An'  I  thought  it  was  the  blonde!"  f 

t  Note  to  the  acorekeepers — Give  Kehoe  an  error  on  the 
colour  of  the  lady's  hair. 


[311] 


MISTER  CONLEY 


A  NICKNAME  is  like  a  porous  plaster— 
you  slap  one  on  a  fellow  to  cure  him  of 
something  and  it  takes  hold  easy  enough, 
but  it  fetches  the  hair  with  it  when  it 
comes  off. 

Mister  Conley  was  what  we  called  him,  with 
the  accent  on  the  Mister.  We  wished  the  title 
on  him  to  cure  him  of  freshness,  and  it  stuck 
so  tight  that  we  came  near  making  a  stranger 
out  of  the  best  third  baseman  in  the  league. 

Most  ballplayers  are  christened  by  the  news 
paper  men,  but  Conley  wasn't.  We  named  him 
ourselves  and  we  gave  him  a  monaker  that  was 
meant  to  hurt.  Sarcasm  is  the  stuff  that  gets 
under  the  skin.  It's  harder  to  bear  than  down 
right  abuse ;  but,  even  so,  I  claim  that  he  might 
better  have  been  Mister  Conley  than  just  plain 
Conley,  3b. 

Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  that  it's  a  bad  sign 
when  a  ballplayer  hasn't  a  nickname  of  any 
sort?  Take  the  Guide  and  pick  out  the  boys 
who  are  known  simply  by  their  last  names,  and 
you'll  find  you  haven't  many  stars  in  your  col 
lection.  They'll  be  just  good  enough  to  get  by. 
No  bats  or  gloves  will  ever  be  named  after  'eao. 

[312] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


It  takes  an  exception  to  make  a  rule.  For 
some  reason  or  other  they  never  say  Walt  when 
they  talk  about  Johnson.  He 's  always  Walter ; 
but,  shucks!  that  fellow  doesn't  need  a  nick 
name!  He's  got  everything  else. 

We  tacked  the  Mister  on  Conley  at  the  spring 
training  camp,  and  it  was  his  own  fault.  You 
know  how  it  is  down  South  in  March — espe 
cially  when  the  ivory-hunters  have  been  beat 
ing  the  jungles  the  season  before.  The  place 
is  all  gummed  up  with  infielders  and  outfielders 
and  pitchers — minor  leaguers  and  sandlotters 
and  semi-pro's — until  you  don't  dare  to  turn 
round  quick  for  fear  of  stepping  on  one  of  'em. 

We  regulars  don't  pay  much  attention  to  re 
cruits,  as  a  general  thing — we  see  so  many  of 
'em.  If  a  youngster  shows  a  lot  of  class  we  look 
him  over,  but  that's  as  far  as  we  go  with  him. 
We  don't  present  him  with  the  keys  of  the  city 
on  suspicion. 

It  isn't  that  we're  swelled  up  or  stuck  on 
ourselves;  we're  only  particular.  Some  clubs 
are  different,  but  we  have  always  been  clan 
nish.  When  the  boss  picks  out  a  new  man  we 
give  him  the  third  degree ;  and  if  he  stands  the 
acid  and  comes  out  ninety-nine  per  cent  human 
being  we  let  him  in — when  we  get  good  and 
ready.  We're  never  in  a  hurry  about  it  and 
we  don't  like  to  be  rushed.  It's  easier  for  a 
St.  Louis  woman  to  break  into  Chicago  society 
than  it  is  for  a  busher  to  land  a  front  seat  in 
our  family  circle. 

We  'd  been  hearing  a  few  things  about  Conley 
[313] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


from  Gagus,  the  chief  scout.  Gagus  found  him 
out  West  somewhere  during  the  boy's  first  year 
as  a  professional  ballplayer.  Before  that  he 
had  been  at  some  jerkwater  college  or  other. 

The  trouble  with  him  was  that  he  expected 
too  much  of  us  in  the  welcome-to-our-city  line 
and  expected  it  too  soon.  There  wasn't  any 
body  to  give  him  a  quiet  tip  to  lie  back  and 
wait;  so  he  came  tearing  into  our  midst  as 
frisky  as  a  fox-terrier  pup — he  wanted  to  paw 
everybody  and  slobber  over  'em.  The  kid 
meant  it  all  right — he  just  didn't  understand 
our  system.  He  was  loaded  to  the  guards  with 
college  notions,  and  I  think  he  joined  out  with 
us  under  the  impression  that  a  big-league  ball 
club  is  a  cross  between  a  college  fraternity  and 
a  six  months'  joy  ride. 

Lots  of  bushers  have  that  idea;  but  after 
they've  been  farmed  out  and  traded  round  a 
while  they  get  over  it.  That  sort  of  experience 
would  have  been  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for 
Conley;  but  he  missed  it.  Conley  took  a  run 
ning  jump  and  landed  square  on  third  base, 
owing  to  Ranee  Murdock's  coming  down  with 
matrimony  and  emotional  insanity  at  the  same 
time.  I'll  explain  about  him: 

Most  of  us  regulars  met  at  St.  Louis  and 
started  South  from  there,  that  being  a  sort  of 
shipping  point  for  ballplayers  in  the  spring  of 
the  year.  Our  party  was  complete — all  but 
Ranee  Murdock,  who  was  to  join  us  there  after 
wintering  in  Kansas  City.  Ranee  had  been  our 
third  baseman  for  five  years — and  a  corking 

[314] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


good  one  he  was.  It  was  a  treat  to  play  beside 
him;  and  if  a  shortstop  doesn't  know  a  third 
baseman  when  he  sees  one,  who  does? 

Billy  Howard,  the  club  secretary,  was  with 
us,  representing  the  Bald  Eagle,  who  was  al 
ready  at  the  training  camp  sizing  up  the  re 
cruits  and  trying  to  get  a  pitcher  or  two  out  of 
the  mess.  We  were  all  sitting  in  the  lobby  of 
the  hotel  and  Billy  was  scuttling  round  like  a 
wet  hen,  fussing  about  Ranee,  the  baggage  and 
a  lot  of  other  things — the  way  club  secretaries 
always  do. 

"I  wired  him  a  week  ago  to  meet  us  here 
to-day,"  says  Billy.  "Come  to  think  of  it,  he 
never  answered — oh,  here  he  is  now ! ' ' 

It  was  Ranee,  sure  enough,  all  dressed  up 
like  a  horse,  with  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole.  I 
knew  the  minute  I  laid  eyes  on  him  that  some 
thing  was  wrong.  He  was  nervous  and  it 
showed  in  the  way  he  laughed  and  slapped  us 
on  the  back.  That  wasn't  like  Ranee — and  it 
wasn't  like  him  to  carry  a  dinky  little  cane 
either. 

"Well,  stranger,"  says  Billy,  "I  was  begin 
ning  to  think  I'd  have  to  leave  your  transporta 
tion  here  and  let  you  follow  us.  We're  hitting 
the  rattler  at  seven-thirty.  Where  is  your 
trunk?" 

"I  didn't  bring  one,"  says  Ranee — and  then 
he  pulled  it  on  us  as  unexpected  as  a  triple 
play. 

He  had  gone  and  eloped  with  a  Kansas  City 
girl  a  couple  of  days  before;  and  her  father, 

[315] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


after  he  recovered  from  the  shock  and  cooled 
off,  had  offered  him  an  interest  in  the  retail 
clothing  business  to  quit  playing  baseball. 

"So  I  guess  I  won't  need  that  transporta 
tion,"  says  Ranee;  he  didn't  have  the  nerve  to 
come  out  flatfooted  and  say  he  was  going  to 
quit. 

"Why,  man  alive,"  says  Billy,  "you  ain't 
a-going  to  run  out  on  the  club,  are  you?" 

"Well,  no-o,"  says  Ranee — "not  exactly  run 
out;  but  I'm  a  married  man  now,  and " 

"G-o-o-d — night!"  says  Smokeless  Solly 
Jones,  the  pitcher,  putting  in  his  oar.  "Any 
time  they  begin  to  pull  that  I'm-a-married-man- 
now  stuff  you  don't  have  to  ask  for  waivers. 
You  can  hand  'em  an  unconditional  release  on 
the  spot.  They  may  look  all  right  and  they  may 
talk  all  right,  but  they'll  never  be  the  same 
again!  If  I  was  a  manager  I  wouldn't  give  a 
nickel  for  a  whole  carload  of  bridegrooms.  It's 
a  form  of  insanity,  sure!" 

"Wait!"  says  Howard,  dancing  up  and 
down.  "Wait  a  minute,  Solly!  You're  hitting 
out  of  your  turn.  Let  me  talk  to  him:  Now, 
Ranee,  you  wouldn't  want  to  leave  the  boss  flat 
on  his  back,  would  you?" 

"No,"  says  Ranee,  stalling,  "I  wouldn't  want 
to  do  it,  Billy;  but  my  wife's  old  man  has  made 
a  sweet  business  proposition  and  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  overlook  it.  A  third  interest  in  the 
best  clothing  store  in  Kansas  City  is  pretty 
soft.  There's  no  future  in  baseball — you  know 
that  as  well  as  I  do.  In  a  few  years  I'll  be  all 

[316] 


MISTER    COXLEY 


through,  and  then  what  have  I  got?  Nothing 
but  a  lot  of  jammed-up  fingers  and  inflamma 
tory  rheumatism.  I  talked  it  all  over  with  my 
wife,  and  she  thinks " 

''Police!"  howls  Smokeless,  breaking  in 
again.  "That's  the  tip-off,  fellers!  His  wife 
thinks!  Those  wishing  to  take  a  last  view  of 
the  remains  kindly  pass  to  the  right!  Why, 
you  poor  deluded  simp,  have  you  quit  thinking 
for  yourself?  Did  it  strike  you  that  it  was 
going  to  ruin  this  ball  club  to  have  a  gap  at 
third  base?  I'll  bet  no  such  notion  ever 
knocked  a  splinter  off  that  granite  dome! 
You've  got  an  elegant  gall — haven't  you — com 
ing  round  here,  shaved  nine  days  under  the 
skin  and  all  disguised  up  with  cologne  and 
chrysanthemums ! 

"And  so  you're  going  to  peddle  hand-me- 
downs  to  the  yokels  because  your  wife  thinks 
you  hadn't  better  play  baseball  any  more !  It's 
a  wonder  she'd  let  you  out  alone  this  evening, 
for  fear  you  'd  catch  cold !  Great  Cupid !  You 
didn't  marry  a  suffragette,  did  you?  You've 
still  got  a  vote,  I  hope !  Ju3t  because  you  let 
a  girl  take  you  by  the  arm  and  drag  you  down 
the  aisle — -" 

"Here!"  says  Bance,  red  as  a  beet,  and 
pretty  mad;  "this  is  the  second  time  you've 
stuck  your  cue  into  a  private  game,  and  if  you 
do  it  again  I'll  knock  all  the  chalk  off  of  it  for 
you.  Do  you  get  me?" 

"You  never  saw  the  day!"  bawls  Solly. 
"You  and  all  your  wife's  counter  jumper  rela- 

[317] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


tions !  You  couldn  't  do  it  if  you  were  in  your 
right  mind !  Did  she  have  to  tell  the  preacher 
'I  will'  for  you?" 

Well,  that  was  pretty  raw,  and  for  a  few 
seconds  it  looked  like  war  right  there  in  the 
lobby;  but  some  of  the  boys  got  hold  of  Solly 
and  herded  him  into  the  bar,  and  the  rest  of  us 
closed  in  on  Ranee  and  argued  with  him.  It 
wasn't  any  use  though.  It  never  is  any  use  to 
argue  with  a  bridegroom;  he  glories  in  his 
shame.  Whenever  we  got  Ranee  treed  and  out 
on  a  limb  he'd  tell  us  what  his  wife  thought. 
That  benched  us  every  time — didn't  even  leave 
us  a  comeback. 

Pretty  soon  Solly  came  back  and  said  he  was 
sorry.  Old  Smokeless  has  his  faults,  but  he's 
always  willing  to  apologise  when  he  sees  he's 
wrong.  Sometimes  he  has  to  be  licked  before 
he  can  see  it;  but  in  this  case  it  wasn't  neces 
sary. 

"Ranee,  old  hoss,"  says  he,  "I  went  a  little 
too  strong  with  that  bawl-out  and  I'm  sorry. 
Of  course  I  don't  really  think  that  she  kid- 
happed  you,  even  if 

"Let  it  go  at  that,"  says  Ranee,  and  they 
shook  hands. 

"This  is  on  the  level?"  says  Solly.  "You 
ain't  trying  to  stick  the  Bald  Eagle  for  more 
dough,  are  you?  You're  really  going  to  quit?" 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  quit,  Solly." 

"Too  bad!"  says  Smokeless,  shaking  his 
head.  "Too  bad!  I'm  going  to  miss  you 
when  I'm  in  there  working — especially  on  the 

[318] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


bunts.  We'll  all  miss  you ;  and  don't  fool  your 
self,  Ranee — you'll  miss  us.  The  afternoons 
will  be  awful  long,  with  nothing  to  do  but  carry 
a  tape  measure  round  your  neck.  You'll  get 
to  thinking  how  good  it  feels  to  hook  a  fast  one 
on  the  nose  and  watch  her  sail." 

1 '  Oh,  I  don 't  kno  /, ' '  sa/s  Ranee ;  but  he 
couldn't  look  Solly  in  the  "ye. 

"Some  day,"  sa.yr  Smokeless,  "you'll  run 
across  a  big-league  ball  club  on  the  road. 
You'll  see  men  who  have  been  like  brothers  to 
you  looking  out  of  the  Pullman  windows,  and 
you'd  give  all  the  clothing  stores  in  Missouri  to 
be  with  them  again — just  for  one  game;  but 
you'll  be  fat  and  out  of  shape,  and  you  won't 
be  able  to  get  your  hands  below  your  knees. 
You're  selling  out  awful  cheap,  Ranee,  old  boy 
—awful  cheap ! ' ' 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  Ranee,  doing  his 
best  to  smile  and  not  getting  it  across  very 
strong.  "I  don't  think  it  will  be  as  bad  as 
that,  Solly." 

"You  just  wait!"  says  Smokeless.  "It'll  be 
worse." 

Ranee  went  to  the  depot  to  see  us  off  and 
somewhere  on  the  way  he  lost  the  fat,  self- 
satisfied  look  of  an  amateur  married  man.  I 
was  on  the  observation  platform  as  the  train 
started  to  pull  out  and  I  got  a  good  look  at 
him.  He  was  shy  all  the  earmarks  of  a  bride 
groom. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  kid  outside  a  circus  tent 
—a  kid  who  knows  that  he's  not  going  to  get 
[319] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


in  to  see  the  show,  but  can't  quite  bring  him 
self  to  the  point  where  he'll  give  up  hope  and 
go  home?  Well,  that  was  Ranee.  He  was 
standing  there  in  the  gateway,  all  alone,  look 
ing  through  at  us;  and,  believe  me  or  not,  I 
wouldn't  have  traded  places  with  him  for  the 
entire  state  of  Missouri. 

By  golly,  a  man  ought  to  pick  out  a  regular 
wife  to  break  even  for  the  loss  of  all  his  old 
pals,  and  I  hoped  Ranee  had  been  lucky  in  the 
draw.  Well,  that's  how  we  came  to  be  shy  a 
third  baseman,  and  it  explains  why  Mister 
Conley  got  his  running  jump  into  the  regular 
line-up. 

The  Bald  Eagle  shed  a  few  tail-feathers  when 
he  heard  that  Ranee  had  signed  a  life  contract 
in  the  Matrimonial  League  and  left  a  hole  at 
third  base  you  could  drive  a  furniture  van 
through. 

It's  no  joke  to  lose  a  third  baseman,  because 
those  fellows  are  born,  not  made;  and  they 
don't  grow  on  every  bush.  I'm  supposed  to  be 
a  fair  sort  of  shortstop,  which  is  my  regular 
position,  and  I've  done  some  second-basing 
that  wasn't  so  rotten;  but  put  me  on  third  and 
I'll  kick  away  a  dozen  games  a  season.  Real 
third  basemen  are  like  black  pearls — worth 
anything  you  can  get  for  'em ;  and  there 's  never 
enough  to  go  round. 

What  made  it  particularly  bad  was  that  the 
boss  didn't  have  a  word  of  warning.  He'd  been 
counting  on  Ranee  as  good  for  five  years  more 
and  he  didn't  have  a  spare  third  sacker  in  sight 

[320] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


or  under  cover.  The  Bald  Eagle — we  call  him 
Jimmy  Patten  to  his  face — had  to  get  a  third 
baseman  in  a  hurry,  and  there  were  only  three 
ways  to  do  it — two  of  'em  hard  and  the  third 
'a  miracle :  he  could  trade,  buy  outright,  or  find 
the  sort  of  man  he  wanted  among  the  recruits. 

You  can  figure  what  sort  of  terms  you  get 
on  a  trade  when  the  other  fellow  knows  you've 
simply  got  to  do  business  with  him.  The  boss 
knew  that  if  he  traded  he'd  have  to  give  his 
right  eye  and  a  piece  of  his  immortal  soul  to 
boot;  and  if  he  bought  an  established  star  it 
would  be  a  five-figure  deal.  It  was  good  horse- 
sense  to  look  for  the  miracle  first;  so  the  Bald 
Eagle  took  another  quick  slant  at  the  recruit 
infielders.  And  there  was  young  Conley  right 
under  his  nose — a  born  third  baseman;  I  will 
say  that  for  him. 

The  first  day  at  the  practice  park  I  sized  up 
the  bushers  carefully,  for  I  was  interested  in 
seeing  the  third-base  gap  plugged.  There  was 
one  redhead  in  the  bunch  who  loomed  up  like 
a  twenty-dollar  goldpiece  on  a  collection  plate 
—and  it  was  Conley.  He  was  a  sure-enough 
ballplayer  and  it  showed  in  every  move  he 
made. 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  baseball  instinct. 
Almost  any  man  who  is  fast  on  his  feet  and  has 
good  eyesight  can  be  taught  to  field  grounders 
and  handle  throws;  but  it's  what  a  man  does 
after  he  gets  the  ball  in  his  hands  that  counts. 
Up  to  that  point  the  work  is  mechanical. 

Conley  knew  what  to  do  with  the  ball  and  he 
[321] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


didn't  have  to  stop  to  think.  He  had  nice 
hands;  he  went  after  the  ball  the  right  way, 
handled  it  clean,  and  got  it  away  from  him  like 
a  streak.  In  the  batting  practice  he  stood  up 
to  the  plate  as  though  he'd  seen  one  before  and 
took  a  good,  snappy  jolt  at  the  ball.  I  saw  the 
Bald  Eagle  watching  him,  grinning  like  he 
does  when  he  picks  up  a  pair  of  aces  on  the 
draw.  It  didn't  take  half  an  eye  to  see  the  boss 
was  sweet  on  the  redhead. 

That  night  at  dinner  some  of  us  were  talking 
about  Conley.  We  weren't  boosting  him,  you 
understand — it  was  a  little  early  for  that.  We 
were  just  mentioning  that  we'd  noticed  him  as 
among  those  present.  About  the  middle  of  the 
discussion  in  walked  the  bird  himself,  looked 
all  round,  and  then  came  over  and  sat  down  at 
our  table. 

Well,  it  wasn't  exactly  a  crime;  but  it  wasn't 
the  right  thing  either.  In  our  camp  the  re 
cruits  have  tables  of  their  own  and  do  their 
sword-swallowing  in  a  bunch.  There  was  a 
dead  silence  for  a  few  seconds;  and  I  guess 
Conley  felt  the  drop  in  the  temperature,  for 
he  fished  out  a  little  leather  case  and  handed  his 
card  to  Solly  Jones.  It  was  just  his  luck  to 
pick  out  the  strongest  kidder  in  the  club. 
Smokeless  looked  at  the  card  for  some  time. 

"Conley— Mister  Marshall  P.  Conley.  H'm! 
Don't  recognise  the  name.  Are  you — stopping 
in  the  city,  Mister  Conley?" 

Conley  started  to  laugh,  but  it  fizzled  out  on 
him,  for  nobody  laughed  with  him. 

[322] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


''Why,  yes,"  says  the  redhead.  "I — I'm 
with  the  ball  club.  Conley— from  the  D.  P.  D. 
League,  you  know." 

"Huh!"  says  Smokeless,  and  went  on  eating. 

Conley  didn't  quite  know  what  to  make  of 
it;  he  sat  there  looking  foolish  and  turning  the 
cardcase  over  and  over  in  his  hands.  More 
silence.  "Pretty  nice  weather  for  spring  train 
ing,"  says  he  at  last. 

Solly  began  to  talk  across  the  table  to  Husky 
Mathews. 

"No,  sir;  I  tell  you  you're  wrong!"  says  he, 
as  if  he  were  getting  back  to  an  old  argument. 
"I  claim  there's  a  better  way  than  sawing  'em 
off  short  or  knocking  'em  off  with  a  club. 
That's  a  quick  way,  but  it's  likely  to  fracture 
the  skull." 

"If  I'm  wrong  show  me,"  says  Husky,  with 
out  the  least  notion  of  what  it  was  all  about, 
but  willing  to  help  it  along. 

"I  use  a  kind  of  salve,"  says  Smokeless.  "If 
anybody  is  troubled  that  way  rub  a  little  dab 
into  the  scalp  and  in  a  few  days  they  drop  off 
by  themselves.  And  it  don't  damage  the  horns 
either." 

"Horns!"  says  Conley,  trying  to  shoulder 
in  on  the  play  and  leaving  himself  wide  open 
for  the  comeback.  "Horns — on  a  human 
being?" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  a  human 
being."  And  Smokeless  took  another  look  at 
the  card.  "It's  used  on  goats,  Mister  Conley— 
and  bi.sh  leaguers.  It  keeps  'em  from  butting 

[323] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


in.  I've  got  a  box  of  it  in  my  trunk  if  you'd 
like  to  try  it." 

That  was  about  all  for  Conley.  It  spoiled 
the  meal  for  him;  but  the  redhead  was  too 
proud  to  push  back  his  chair  and  quit.  He  sat 
there,  going  through  the  motions  of  eating,  and 
now  and  then  trying  to  edge  in  on  the  conversa 
tion;  but  somebody  crossed  in  front  and  took 
the  ball  away  from  him  every  time.  The  best 
he  got  was  a  chance  to  look  interested  and  nod 
his  head  once  in  a  while.  It  was  a  pretty  rough 
deal  on  a  beginner;  but  if  he  had  played  his 
proper  position  he  would  have  missed  it. 

Smokeless  was  responsible  for  the  nickname. 
He  carried  that  card  round  with  him  even  when 
he  was  in  uniform,  and  every  time  the  redhead 
opened  his  mouth  Smokeless  would  begin  to 
look  through  his  pockets.  He'd  dig  up  the  card, 
take  a  slant  at  it  and  then  pull  the  Mister  Con- 
ley  on  him. 

In  a  few  days  we  were  all  doing  it.  The 
newspaper  men  took  it  up  next,  and  after  Con- 
ley  saw  his  press  notices  he  began  eating  by 
himself  over  in  a  far  corner. 

"It's  like  this,"  Smokeless  explained:  "When 
they  were  dealing  out  the  humility  this  young 
third-basing  demon  didn't  draw  to  his  hand. 
It's  a  cinch  he's  going  to  be  one  of  us,  but  it 
won't  hurt  him  to  be  reminded  once  in  a  while 
that  he's  only  related  to  this  ball  club  by  mar 
riage.  When  he's  tame  we  can  let  up  on  him." 

Conley  took  his  taming  like  a  little  man  and 
didn't  talk  back  to  any  of  the  regulars;  but  it 

[324] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


wasn't  exactly  nutritious  for  any  of  the  other 
bushers  to  call  him  Mister. 

There  was  a  big,  rawboned  recruit  pitcher 
named  Hendricks — from  out  West  somewhere 
—and  he  made  it  his  business  to  ride  Conley 
every  chance  he  got.  He  Mistered  him  all  over 
the  place  for  a  few  days  and  then  the  redhead 
invited  him  over  behind  the  grandstand.  The 
Bald  Eagle  refereed  it — Jim  Patten  wouldn't 
give  a  nickel  for  a  ballplayer  who  won't  fight — 
and  Conley  gave  that  big  rube  thirty  pounds 
and  as  swell  a  licking  as  you  could  wish  to  see. 

" That's  a  plenty!"  says  Hendricks  as  he  was 
getting  up  the  last  time.  * ' I  'm  no  hog !  I  know 
when  I'm  satisfied.  I'll  call  you  anything  you 
like  if  you'll  only  teach  me  to  use  my  left  hand 
like  that.  I  never  saw  her  coming  once." 

11  Don't  call  me  anything.  Just  keep  away 
from  me,"  says  Conley.  He  went  back  on  the 
diamond  and  after  that  he  was  cock-of-the-walk 
with  the  recruits.  The  Bald  Eagle  was  tickled 
to  death  with  him. 

"He  can  lick  any  man  on  the  team,"  says  the 
boss.  "It's  a  treat  to  see  a  good  straight  left 
again." 

"Yeah,"  says  Smokeless;  "but  his  footwork 
is  coarse  and  he  telegraphs  that  right  hand 
every  time  he  cuts  it  loose.  He'd  be  a  chop- 
ping-block  for  a  man  who  would  step  in  and 
beat  him  to  it." 

Solly  is  a  wonder  at  picking  out  a  boxer's 
weak  points,  but  nobody  ever  saw  him  find  any 
of  'em  with  his  fists. 

[325] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


"Take  a  tip  from  me,  Jones,"  says  the  boss, 
"and  lay  off  of  this  sorrel-top.  Some  day  he'll 
weary  of  your  comedy  and  eat  you  alive." 

"Well,"  says  Solly,  "in  that  case  I  have  a 
ticket  that  I  won't  go  hungry  entirely.  I'll 
gather  a  toothful  here  and  there  while  he's 
making  a  meal." 

"All  right,"  says  the  Bald  Eagle,  hitching 
up  his  belt,  "if  that's  the  way  you  feel  about 
it;  but  don't  forget  that  the  real  comedians 
are  the  ones  who  know  when  to  get  off  the  stage, 
and  the  best  thing  about  a  joke  is  knowing 
when  it's  played  out." 

We  didn't  ease  up  on  Conley,  and  Solly 
worked  that  cardstuff  on  him  until  he  wore  the 
card  out ;  but  the  kid  never  said  a  word.  I  can 
see  now  that  the  college-frat  idea  must  have 
been  strong  in  his  head.  A  fraternity  candi 
date  gets  an  awful  rough  ride  before  he's  finally 
taken  in  as  a  brother,  and  the  better  he  stands 
the  ragging  the  more  they  think  of  him,  as  a 
rule. 

Conley  must  have  had  a  notion  that  he  was 
being  initiated;  and  when  the  boss  told  him  to 
pack  up  his  junk  and  get  ready  to  start  North 
with  the  regulars  it  was  natural  for  the  boy  to 
figure  that  he'd  passed  his  examinations  and 
been  elected  a  blood  brother. 

That  was  the  time  when  he  should  have  held 
back  a  little  and  let  us  make  the  advances;  but 
I  suppose  he'd  kept  himself  bottled  up  so  long 
that  he  just  couldn't  stand  it  another  minute. 
And  he  was  a  friendly  kid  by  nature.  That 
[326] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


night  he  came  swarming  into  the  Pullman  with 
his  bags;  and  the  first  crack  out  of  the  box  he 
jammed  my  derby  down  over  my  eyes  and 
slapped  Husky  Mathews  on  the  back. 

"Well,  by  golly,  we're  all  here,  fellers !"  says 
he. 

"Mister  Conley  is  crowding  the  mourners  a 
trifle,"  says  Solly  to  me.  "Somebody  ought 
to  tell  him  that  it's  a  long  time  till  October  and 
the  averages  ain't  quite  figured  up  yet.  Look 
at  him  jab  Dugan  in  the  slats!  Ain't  he  fresh- 
like,  all  at  once!" 

Well,  it  probably  wasn't  all  freshness  at  that. 
A  lot  of  it  was  excitement  and  sheer  happiness 
at  getting  what  every  young  ballplayer  dreams 
of — a  chance  in  the  big  league.  I  remember  I 
was  as  daffy  as  a  canary  bird  the  first  few  days 
myself;  and  when  a  kid  is  happy  he's  simply 
got  to  talk  and  laugh  and  make  a  noise,  or  he'll 
bust.  After  all  that  silence  and  dignity  the  re 
action  had  got  Conley,  and  his  tongue  was  loose 
at  both  ends. 

Even  then  I  think  he  would  have  made  the 
riffle  if  he  had  used  ordinary  judgment.  Every 
body  was  feeling  lively  and  cheerful,  what  with 
the  training  season  being  over  and  the  salaries 
going  to  start  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  so  on: 
It  wasn't  any  time  to  be  carrying  grouches  and 
picking  flaws,  and  Conley 's  little  burst  of  fresh 
ness  might  have  got  by  in  the  general  wave  of 
good  feeling  if  he  hadn't  put  himself  in  line  for 
a  bawl-out.  It  was  his  second  bad  break. 

Of  course  there  was  a  poker  game,  and  Eddie 
[327] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


Pine,  our  first  baseman,  dropped  thirty  bucks 
right  off  the  reel.  Then,  like  a  fellow  will  do 
sometimes  when  he's  a  loser,  Eddie  began  try 
ing  to  run  everybody  out  of  the  good  pots — 
and,  of  course,  he  got  trimmed  some  more. 
Conley  was  leaning  over  from  the  seat  behind 
making  a  lot  of  comments  about  the  different 
plays  and  the  pots,  and  so  on.  That  was  toler 
able  rank  judgment,  to  begin  with. 

I  saw  Eddie  look  at  him  once  or  twice,  a  little 
sour;  but  there  wasn't  any  real  clash  until  Con- 
ley  tried  to  tell  Pine  how  he  should  have  played 
his  three  queens  against  Dugan's  one-card 
draw.  That  was  bad  enough;  but,  to  make  it 
worse,  Dugan  caught  his  man  and  back-raised 
Eddie  clear  to  the  roof.  It  really  wasn't  any 
time  for  conversation — let  alone  advice  from  an 
outsider. 

"You  should  have  laid  back  with  'em,  Ed 
die,"  says  Conley.  "If  Joe  hadn't  hooked  up 
that  other  tenspot  he  wouldn't  have  bet  into 
your  two-card  draw,  and " 

"Say,  who  is  this  guy?"  asks  Pine,  turn 
ing  round  and  taking  a  good  long  look  at 
Conley. 

"Oh,  you  mean  Little  Bright  Eyes  here?" 
says  Smokeless,  who  was  in  the  game.  "Wait; 
I  think  I  can  place  him."  Solly  rummaged 
round  a  while  and  fished  out  what  was  left  of 
the  card.  "Why,  this  is  Mister  Marshall  P. 
Conley — from  the  D.  P.  D.  League.  His  horns 
have  grown  out  again — makes  him  look  dif 
ferent.  ' ' 

[328] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


"Is  he  a  friend  of  yours?"  asks  Pine. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  a  friend; 
but  he  introduced  himself  to  me  once.'* 

"Well,  you  tell  him,"  says  Pine,  "that  if  he 
sticks  his  lip  in  this  poker  game  again  I'll  take 
him  over  my  knee  and  spank  him." 

It  isn't  necessary  to  kick  a  good  dog  when 
all  he  wants  to  do  is  jump  on  you  to  show  you 
he's  friendly.  Conley  drew  back  as  if  he'd 
been  hit  in  the  face. 

"Why,  I  didn't  mean "  he  began,  sort 

of  stuttering. 

"Ain't  that  pest  gone  yet!"  snaps  Eddie 
without  even  looking  over  his  shoulder. 
"Whose  deal?" 

"Excuse  me,  gentlemen — and  Mister  Pine!" 
says  the  boy;  but  nobody  paid  any  attention 
to  him. 

Pretty  soon  he  went  back  to  the  other  end 
of  the  car  and  sat  down  alone.  He  looked  out 
the  window  for  about  three  hours,  which  was 
a  stall  and  didn't  fool  anybody,  because  it  was 
so  dark  he  couldn't  see  a  thing  but  his  own  re 
flection  in  the  glass.  I  could  imagine  how  he 
felt. 

According  to  his  way  of  thinking  he'd  served 
his  time  and  worked  out  his  probation;  and  just 
when  he  was  bursting  with  happiness  because 
he  was  going  to  be  a  real  big  leaguer  and  one 
of  us — zingo!  he  was  back  where  he  started: 
Mister  Conley,  from  the  D.  P.  D.  League. 

He'd  been  running  his  head  oif  on  a  foul  tip. 

[329] 


SCOKE    BY    INNINGS 


IV 

Well,  sir,  from  that  night  on,  Conley 
Mistered  every  one  of  us.  I  suppose  that  was 
his  notion  of  getting  even — a  typical  kid's  trick. 
It  was  funny  at  first  and  we  thought  we'd  see 
how  far  he  would  go  with  it;  so  we  Mistered 
him  back  whenever  we  got  a  chance,  which 
wasn't  often,  for  he  never  opened  his  mouth 
except  on  business — that  is  to  say,  something 
about  baseball. 

While   we  were   travelling  North  he   spent 

most  of  his  time  up  ahead  in  the  smoker;  he 

never  came  back  to  our  car  except  to  sleep. 

In  the  towns  where  we  played  spring  exhibition 

games  the  only  place  we  saw  him  was  at  the 

ball  orchard.     I  had  an  idea  that  it  would  last 

only  a  few  days;  but  Conley  fooled  me — he 

never  forgot  to  Mister  us,  even  on  the  bench. 

"Mister  Daly,  what  was  that  one  you  hit?" 

"That  was  a  spitter,  Mister  Conley." 

Can  you  imagine  that  kind  of  talk — on  the 

bench? 

After  the  season  opened  and  Conley  began 
to  break  up  games  with  that  long  pole  of  his, 
and  show  so  much  class  that  the  fans  quit  yell 
ing  for  Ranee  Murdock,  we  judged  the  thing 
had  gone  far  enough  and  tried  to  make  a  few 
advances;  but  Conley  wouldn't  have  it.  He 
froze  us  stiff  and  then  crawled  farther  back 
into  his  shell.  A  grown  man  with  a  grievance 
can't  be  near  as  nasty  as  a  half-baked  kid,  and 
Conley  was  a  fright.  He  peddled  out  insults 

[330] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


right  and  left — and  did  it  so  darned  politely 
too! 

The  Bald  Eagle,  being  a  strategist,  thought 
a  battle  might  clear  the  atmosphere;  so  he 
rigged  up  a  little  trouble  one  night  in  the  club 
house.  Conley  knocked  out  eighty-five  dollars' 
worth  of  crown  and  bridge  work  for  Eddie  Pine 
and  put  an  awful  head  on  Solly  Jones ;  and  the 
worst  of  it  was  he  refused  to  shake  hands 
afterward. 

"The  storybook  dope  is  wrong,"  says  the 
Bald  Eagle.  "  Peace  ought  to  come  after  war, 
but  this  is  a  reversal  of  all  previous  form.  The 
boy  has  got  a  screw  loose  somewhere;  but,  so 
long  as  he's  hitting  .325  and  third-basing  all 
over  the  shop,  he  can  be  as  upstage  as  he  likes. 
If  he  begins  to  show  politeness  in  his  hitting 
I'll  climb  on  to  his  collar.  .  .  .  Solly,  I 
thought  you  said  that  he'd  be  a  sucker  for 
any  man  who'd  step  in  and  beat  him  to  the 
punch?" 

Smokeless  was  over  in  the  corner,  and 
Absalom,  our  black  rubber,  was  working  on  his 
face. 

"Well,  didn't  you  see  me  step  in?"  mumbles 
Solly.  "Trouble  was  that  I  forgot  to  step  out 
again.  .  .  .  Ouch!  Easy  there,  Absalom! 
You're  getting  that  stuff  in  my  eye!" 

The  newspapers  got  hold  of  the  Mister  busi 
ness  ;  but,  of  course,  they  took  the  wrong  slant. 
The  plain  truth  might  have  done  Conley  good, 
but  I  suppose  they  figured  it  made  a  better 
story  the  other  way.  A  woman  reporter  came 

[331] 


SCORE    BY   INNINGS 


to  the  hotel  in  Chicago,  took  one  peek  at  Conley 
— I'll  swear  the  kid  never  said  ten  words  to 
her — and  tore  off  a  whole  page  of  slush. 

The  Chesterfield  of  the  Big  League  was  the 
heading,  and  there  were  pen-and-ink  drawings 
of  Conley  in  a  claw-hammer;  Conley  playing 
polo;  Conley  turkey-trotting  with  a  blonde 
heiress — and  I  don't  know  what  all;  but  the 
write-up  that  went  with  'em  had  the  drawings 
skinned  a  mile. 

The  woman  said  Conley  was  a  member  of 
the  younger  set — she  didn't  mention  what  set 
his  old  folks  belonged  to ;  so  we  're  still  guessing 
on  that  point — and  she  pulled  a  fierce  line  of 
bunk,  accusing  Conley  of  being  rich  and  hand 
some,  and  playing  ball  for  the  love  of  the  sport ! 
It  made  a  lively  little  article ;  but  it  would  have 
been  better  for  Conley  if  she  had  said  he  was 
a  pin-feathered  kid,  with  a  sour  disposition  and 
eighteen  hundred  a  year. 

"Even  on  the  field,"  raved  this  literary 
female,  "in  the  rush  of  conflict,  surrounded  by 
the  rougher  element,  mingling  with  men  of 
lower  standards,  this  young  Chesterfield  of  the 
diamond  maintains  his  lofty  ideals,  command 
ing  the  respectful  admiration  of  his  teammates, 
who  see  in  him  everything  a  professional 
athlete  should  be  but  too  often — alas! — is 
not." 

"Help!"  says  Smokeless  Solly  when  he  read 
it.  "The  rougher  element — that's  us,  fellers. 
We're  the  men  of  lower  standards.  She's  been 
opening  our  mail.  .  .  .  And  who  in  Sam  Hill 

[332] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


is  this  Chesterfield  person?  I  don't  seem  to 
make  him  at  all.  Chesterfield!  Where  did  he 
ever  tend  bar?" 

Conley  was  mighty  sore  about  that  write-up. 
He  told  the  hotel  clerk  he  had  a  girl  in  Dexter, 
Iowa,  who  wouldn't  care  for  that  turkey-trot 
ting  picture  at  all.  It  would  make  her  think 
that  he  was  leading  a  double  life. 

That  was  a  fair  sample  of  the  guff  that  got 
into  the  papers — and  the  baseball  writers  knew 
the  truth,  but  wouldn't  print  it.  The  fans 
Mistered  the  kid  from  Boston  to  St.  Louis,  so 
that  he  never  had  a  chance  to  forget  his  grouch 
and  be  human. 

In  spite  of  his  faults  Conley  was  popular 
with  the  crowds.  Anybody  who  plays  the  diffi 
cult  corner  the  way  that  kid  played  it,  with  a 
fancy  line  of  extra-base  knocks  on  the  side,  can 
have  plenty  of  people  cheering  for  him;  but 
popularity  didn't  make  Conley  happy.  He  was 
the  saddest  and  the  lonesomest  big-league  star 
in  the  business;  and  I'll  bet  there  were  times 
when  he'd  have  given  twenty  points  off  his 
batting  average  for  a  heart-to-heart  talk  with 
a  real  pal.  There  wasn't  a  man  in  the  club  he 
could  call  his  friend — and  the  ballplayer  who 
hasn't  at  least  one  chum  on  the  payroll  is  in 
hard  luck. 

Well,  it  went  along  that  way  until  the  end  of 
the  season,  Conley  getting  crustier  and  crustier, 
but  playing  like  a  wild  man  and  breaking  up 
many  a  game  with  that  fifty-five-ounce  bat  of 
his.  He  never  loosened  up  with  us  for  a 

[333] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


minute — not  even  after  the  game  that  cinched 
the  pennant  and  made  us  sure  of  the  World's 
Series;  and,  believe  me,  there  was  some  cele 
bration  that  night  too ! 


After  every  Big  Series  it  is  customary  for 
the  long-range  critics  to  get  in  their  fine  work. 
In  the  corner  groceries  and  cigar  stands  from 
Maine  to  California  you  can  meet  fellows  who 
know  more  about  baseball  strategy  than  the 
men  who  get  twenty  thousand  a  year  for 
handling  a  pennant-winning  club.  These  wise 
Ikes,  who  never  saw  a  regular  game,  can  tell 
you  just  where  the  mistakes  were  made  and 
how  each  game  might  have  been  won. 

I'm  not  in  the  class  with  these  experts,  so 
you  needn't  expect  me  to  tip  off  any  real  low- 
down  stuff  on  the  series  we  played  with  the 
Grizzlies  for  the  World's  Championship.  It's 
enough  to  say  that  at  the  end  of  the  fifth  game 
the  score  stood  three  games  to  two  in  our 
favour.  We  needed  another  to  win  the  long 
end  of  the  money. 

It  never  should  have  gone  beyond  five  games ; 
but  Scotty  MacPherson,  pitching  the  fifth 
game,  laid  a  fast  one  across  the  outside  corner 
of  the  plate  for  Shag  Robinson,  the  Grizzly 
first-baseman,  and  Shag  hit  it  a  mile,  with  two 
on  the  bases.  Scotty  had  'em  licked  2  to  0  at 
the  time,  but  Shag's  home  run  beat  us.  Any 
pitcher  who  gives  that  dynamiter  a  fast  one, 

[334] 


MISTEE    CONLEY 


outside,  ought  to  have  his  roof  examined  by 
the  nut  commissioners. 

Before  the  series  began  we  were  all  a  little 
bit  nervous  about  Conley.  It  was  practically 
certain  that  the  Grizzlies  would  centre  the  at 
tack  on  him  as  much  as  possible,  figuring  that 
on  account  of  his  inexperience  they  might  be 
able  to  rattle  him.  Nobody  knows  how  a  re 
cruit  is  going  to  act  in  his  first  World's  Series; 
and,  for  that  matter,  I've  seen  many  a  veteran 
choke  up  and  kick  away  easy  chances  when  he 
was  in  there  playing  for  the  difference  between 
sixty  and  forty  per  cent. 

It  is  good  baseball  tactics  to  shoot  at  the 
weakest  spot  on  a  team,  and  it  was  good  judg 
ment  for  the  Grizzlies  to  figure  that  the  soft 
place  in  our  lineup  would  be  at  third.  If  they 
could  make  Conley  nervous  or  get  him  to  fight 
ing  the  ball  they  would  have  just  that  much 
advantage. 

Sure  enough,  they  went  after  the  kid  from 
the  tap  of  the  gong.  The  players  kidded  him, 
the  coachers  yelled  at  him,  and  the  pitchers 
gave  him  the  old  beanball.  In  the  very  first 
game  and  Conley 's  first  time  at  bat,  Buzz  Gaff- 
ney,  the  big  Grizzly  righthander,  whistled  a 
wicked  one  right  at  Conley 's  head.  That  sort 
of  thing  is  calculated  to  worry  a  hitter  and  get 
him  to  thinking  about  what  would  happen  if 
his  head  got  in  the  way  of  one  of  those  bean- 
balls.  Conley  ducked,  of  course — and  Gaffney 
laughed. 

"Take  your  foot  out  of  the  water-bucket, 
[335] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


Mister  Conley,"  says  Buzz,  which  is  about  as 
insulting  a  remark  as  a  pitcher  can  make. 
'  *  Stand  up  there — if  you  ain  't  afraid ! ' ' 

I  forgot  to  say  that  Conley  never  Mistered 
any  opposition  players  or  umpires. 

1  'I'm  standing  right  here!"  he  pipes,  thump 
ing  the  rubber  with  the  end  of  his  bat.  ' '  Shoot 
another  one  like  that  and  I'll  let  it  hit  me  and 
take  a  base.  Why,  you  poor  miserable  old  has- 
been,  you  haven't  got  enough  speed  to  dent  a 
derby  hat !  Come  on !  Show  me ! " 

Then  Conley  hogged  the  plate.  Buzz 
switched  to  a  curve  and  the  kid  lined  it  out 
for  two  bases.  That  should  have  been  enough 
to  convince  'em  that  Conley  wasn't  the  scaring 
kind;  but  they  kept  right  after  him,  trying  to 
find  out  where  his  goat  was  pastured.  They 
were  still  looking  for  the  animal  when  the  sixth 
game  opened  on  their  home  grounds. 

Old  Smokeless  Solly  was  selected  to  pitch 
the  sixth  game;  he  had  already  trimmed  the 
Grizzlies  once  with  his  slow  ball.  I  claim  that 
Solly  Jones  has  the  slowest  ball  in  the  major 
leagues — which  is  where  he  gets  the  name  of 
Smokeless.  It  floats  up  to  the  plate  like  a  toy 
balloon  and  a  man  can  read  the  signature  of 
the  league  president  on  it  before  he  takes  a 
swing.  It  looks  easy  to  hit  and  it  is  easy  to 
hit — in  the  air.  Solly  had  let  the  Grizzlies 
down  with  nine  goose-eggs  in  his  first  game; 
so  we  felt  reasonably  comfortable  behind 
him. 

The  Grizzlies  sent  Swede  Olson  after  us — a 

{336] 


MISTEE    CONLEY 


six-foot  lumberjack,  with  a  nasty  hop  on  his 
fast  ball.  They  were  fighting  uphill  for  the 
sixty  per  cent  and  it  was  a  real  battle  from  the 
opening  inning. 

In  the  second,  Mike  Mullaney,  their  shortstop 
— an  aggressive  little  mick — tried  to  steal  third 
base.  Danny  Daly,  our  catcher,  juggled  the 
ball  the  least  fraction  of  a  second  and  then  had 
to  make  a  chain-lightning  peg  to  Conley.  I 
was  close  to  the  baseline  and  I  can  swear  that 
Mullaney  had  a  clear  path  to  the  bag. 

He  went  in  like  a  thunderbolt,  spikes  first, 
sliding  low  to  get  away  from  the  tag;  and  I 
saw  him  throw  his  right  foot  a  bit  wide.  It 
caught  Conley  on  the  shin  and  the  kid  went 
down  in  a  heap;  but  he  held  on  to  the  ball. 
The  umpire  called  Mullaney  safe.  As  Conley 
got  up  he  said  something  to  Mullaney,  and  as 
I  ran  over  I  heard  Mike 's  answer : 

"Keep  off  the  baseline  if  you  don't  want  to 
be  spiked!  You'll  get  your  legs  cut  off  trying 
to  block  people." 

"He  wasn't  on  the  baseline,"  I  says,  "and 
he  never  even  came  close  to  blocking  you.  I 
saw  you  slam  that  right  foot  out  to  get  him — 
and  I've  got  a  notion  to  punch  you  in  the  eye! 
Are  you  hurt  bad,  Conley!" 

The  kid  took  a  few  steps,  trying  out  his  left 
ankle.  His  red  stocking  was  torn  a  little  six 
inches  above  the  shoetop,  so  it  was  a  cinch  that 
the  spikes  had  hit  him. 

* ' No,  Mister  Hines, ' '  says  he.  "I 'm  all  right, 
thank  you. ' ' 

[337] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


He  didn't  forget  to  Mister  me  even  then! 
Well,  I  gave  Mullaney  a  bawling-out  on  general 
principles,  because  I  didn't  want  him  to  think 
he  was  getting  away  with  anything.  Smoke 
less  came  over  and  joined  in. 

"We  keep  a  file  on  our  bench  for  fellers  like 
you,"  says  Solly — "a  file  to  sharpen  spikes 
with.  You'd  better  stay  away  from  second  the 
rest  of  this  game,  because  every  man  that  slides 
in  there  will  have  a  razor-edge  aimed  at  your 
knee-cap.  And  that  ain't  all — the  next  time  I 
get  you  up  there  at  the  plate  I'm  going  to  hit 
you  right  in  the  ear.  In  the  ear !  Do  you  get 
me?" 

Mike  showed  his  teeth. 

"You  couldn't  hit  the  ground  with  your 
hat!"  says  he.  "And  as  for  this  bush  third 
baseman  he'll  be  on  crutches  the  rest  of  his  life 
if  he  tries  to  block  me  again. ' ' 

"You're  a  liar!  I  didn't  block  you,"  says 
Conley. 

All  this  time  the  fans  were  yelling  and  those 
who  rooted  for  us  howled :  ' '  Dirty  ball !  Dirty 
ball!"  And  the  home  contingent  cheered 
Mullaney.  The  noise  lasted  until  Solly,  back 
in  the  box  but  still  jawing  at  Mike,  snapped  the 
ball  over  to  third  and  caught  Mullaney  flat- 
footed  as  a  cigar-store  Indian,  six  feet  off  the 
bag. 

Conley  ran  him  down  on  the  line  and  when 
he  tagged  him  out  he  brought  the  ball  from  his 
hip,  knocking  Mullaney  flat  on  his  face.  I  heard 
him  grunt  twenty  feet  away. 

[338] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


"How  bad  did  he  nick  you?"  asks  the  Bald 
Eagle  when  Conley  limped  to  the  bench. 

"Just  broke  the  skin,  Mister  Patten.  It 
stings  a  little — that's  all." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  it." 

"It's  not  worth  skinning  down  the  stocking 
for.  It  '11  be  all  right  in  a  minute. ' ' 

Conley  went  over  and  sat  down  on  the  far 
end  of  the  bench,  and  I  saw  him  twisting  his 
stocking  so  that  the  torn  place  would  come  on 
the  side  instead  of  over  the  shin. 

"There's  one  game  rooster!"  says  Patten. 
"Did  you  see  him  slam  the  ball  into  Mul- 
laney's  ribs?  They'll  find  out  pretty  soon 
that  they're  wasting  time  trying  to  get  this 
kid's  goat." 

Mind  you,  I  don't  say  that  Mullaney  or  any 
other  ballplayer  would  deliberately  spike  a 
man.  I've  played  ball  for  nine  years  and  I 
never  saw  but  one  case  where  I  felt  sure  the 
spiking  had  been  done  on  purpose.  This  was 
probably  an  accident ;  but  after  it  had  happened 
and  couldn't  he  helped  it  was  baseball  sense 
for  Mullaney  to  put  all  the  blame  on  Conley  and 
threaten  to  cut  him  in  two  the  next  chance  he 
got. 

And  then  Mullaney,  being  an  infielder  him 
self,  knew  that  nothing  in  the  world  shakes  a 
man's  nerves  like  a  spiking.  I've  been  cut 
pretty  badly  a  few  times;  and  to  this  day  I 
never  see  a  man  coming  at  me  feet  first  without 
wondering  whether  I'm  going  to  get  it  again, 
and  remembering  just  how  those  steels  hurt 

[339] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


when  they  rip  through  the  flesh  and  scrape  the 
bone. 

Yes,  Mullaney  had  the  right  system,  but  his 
threats  didn't  seem  to  work  on  Conley.  The 
kid  was  all  over  the  place  like  a  circus  tent, 
pulling  off  sensational  stops  and  going  back 
into  the  shadow  of  the  grandstand  after  fouls. 
He  knocked  down  one  cannon-ball  drive  along 
the  third-base  line  that  was  a  daisy.  That 
wallop  was  ticketed  clear  through  to  the  fence, 
and  Conley  saved  us  one  run  right  there — and 
possibly  two. 

In  the  fifth  inning  Butch  Dillon,  the  Grizzly 
rightfielder,  went  whirling  into  third  base 
spikes  first  and  yelling:  "Look  out!  Look 
out!"  But  Conley  didn't  flinch  a  muscle.  He 
took  the  throw  and  put  the  ball  on  Butch  as 
clean  as  you  would  wish. 

Then,  in  the  first  of  the  sixth — just  to  make 
it  more  binding — Conley  got  hold  of  one  of 
Olson's  fast  shoots  and  hammered  it  over 
Dillon's  head,  scoring  me  from  second  with  the 
first  run  of  the  game. 

The  kid  was  spry  enough  on  the  field,  but  I 
noticed  that  he  limped  badly  coming  and  going 
between  innings;  and  once  he  poured  some 
water  on  his  stocking  and  let  it  soak  in.  I  was 
sitting  beside  him  when  he  did  it  and  heard 
him  suck  in  his  breath  the  way  my  little  boy 
does  when  he  cuts  his  finger.  That  tipped  it 
to  me  that  his  shin  was  hurting  him  more  than 
he  would  admit  and  I  gave  him  credit  for 
gameness. 

[340] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


Well,  the  game  boomed  along  into  the  ninth 
inning,  still  1  to  0;  so  we  had  an  edge  of  one 
run  when  they  went  to  bat  in  the  last  half.  All 
we  had  to  do  was  blank  'em  again  and  the  long 
end  of  the  money  was  ours.  I  was  already 
reading  the  figures  on  my  check. 

It  was  the  pitcher's  turn  to  hit;  and  Neville, 
the  Grizzly  manager,  yanked  Olson  and  sent 
Bradner  up  to  bat  for  him.  At  the  same  time 
he  switched  the  system  of  attack.  For  eight 
innings  they  had  been  waiting  Solly  out  and 
letting  the  first  ball  go  by;  but  Bradner  came 
up  with  orders  to  clout  the  first  one  that  was 
over  the  plate.  We  hadn't  seen  much  of  Brad 
ner  in  the  series,  but  we  knew  he  was  a  dan 
gerous  man  with  the  stick. 

"Hello,  little  one!"  says  Solly  to  Bradner. 
"When  did  they  let  you  out  of  the  cage?" 

Then  he  floated  up  a  slow  one  on  the  inside. 
Bradner  stepped  back,  clubbed  his  bat  short  and 
whaled  the  ball  down  at  me  a  mile  a  minute  on 
the  barehand  side.  I  got  two  fingers  on  it, 
but  it  ran  up  my  arm  and  down  my  back  like 
a  squirrel — and  Bradner  was  safe.  The  scorer 
gave  me  an  error  on  it — the  cross-eyed  dub !  I 
think  I  was  lucky  to  stop  it  at  all. 

Butch  Dillon  was  the  next  man  up  and  he  hit 
the  first  ball — a  measly  little  pop-up  back  of 
first  base,  just  far  enough  to  be  mighty  unhandy 
to  reach.  Eddie  Pine,  who  is  a  big,  leggy  fellow, 
went  tearing  back  after  it  and  Joe  Dugan  came 
tearing  in  from  right  field.  We  saw  it  was 
Pine's  ball  and  we  all  yelled:  "Eddie! 

[341] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


Eddie!"  But  Joe  came  bulling  along  like  a 
steam  engine,  with  his  nose  in  the  air;  and  he 
smashed  into  Pine  full  tilt.  Eddie  turned  a 
complete  somersault,  Dugan  was  knocked  flat 
on  his  back  and,  of  course,  the  ball  fell  as  safe 
as  a  government  bond. 

Bradner,  waiting  halfway  between  first  and 
second  in  case  the  ball  should  be  caught, 
reached  third  and  Dillon  sprinted  to  second. 
It  was  all  Dugan 's  fault  for  not  letting  Pine 
take  the  ball,  but  his  alibi  was  that  there  was 
so  much  noise  in  the  stands  he  didn't  hear  us. 
If  Joe  has  a  weakness  it's  a  little  tendency 
toward  solid  ivory. 

Well,  there  we  were,  up  against  one  of  the 
sudden  switches  in  the  luck  that  make  baseball 
such  an  uncertain  proposition.  A  minute  be 
fore  and  those  fans  wouldn't  have  given  a 
smooth  dime  for  their  chances;  now  they  were 
all  up,  jumping  and  dancing  and  yelling  like 
Comanches.  A  minute  before  we  thought  we 
had  a  cinch;  now  we  were  drawn  in  on  the 
grass,  fighting  to  cut  off  the  tying  run,  with  a 
possible  winning  run  on  second  base  and  no 
body  out. 

It  was  a  desperate  situation,  for  Dugan 's 
boneplay  had  unsettled  us  and  shaken  our 
nerves.  Old  Solly  was  cackling  at  the  next 
batter,  but  it  wasn't  on  the  level  with  him.  He 
didn't  feel  any  more  like  laughing  than  the  rest 
of  us,  but  he  didn't  think  it  was  policy  to  let 
Shag  Eobinson  know  it. 

Shag  was  the  next  hitter — the  fencebuster; 
[342] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


and  we  knew  to  a  moral  certainty  that  if  the 
first  one  came  over  he  would  take  a  crash  at  it. 
I  remember  sort  of  praying  that  he  would  hit 
it  on  the  ground  and  give  us  a  gambling  chance 
for  our  white  alley — and  then  Solly  let  fly, 
waist  high  and  inside.  It  was  a  slow  ball,  and 
that  gave  Shag  a  chance  to  pull  back  from  the 
plate  and  set  himself.  He  timed  it  beautifully, 
swinging  as  if  it  were  the  last  act  of  his  life 
and  he  wanted  to  use  all  his  steam  before  he 
went. 

Shag  put  everything  between  his  spikes  and 
his  shoulders  into  one  terrific  swipe,  and  he 
caught  that  slow  ball  square  on  the  end  of  his 
bat — wham !  It  came  down  toward  third  base, 
level  as  a  sunbeam  and  buzzing  like  a  bee.  I 
didn't  have  time  to  untrack  myself  or  turn  my 
head — just  time  to  think,  "There  goes  the  ball 
game!"— when  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye  I 
saw  Conley  make  a  lunge  into  the  air  with  his 
glove.  The  crack  of  the  bat  and  the  spat  of 
the  ball  against  leather  were  like  two  hand 
clasps — they  were  that  close  together — and 
there  was  Conley,  scrambling  along  the  grass 
after  the  ball !  One  chance  in  a  million  and  he 
got  away  with  it ;  he  had  actually  knocked  that 
lightning  drive  out  of  the  air  with  a  blind,  one- 
handed  stab ! 

Bradner  was  tearing  for  the  plate,  Dillon  was 
between  second  and  third,  and  the  tremendous 
roar  from  the  stands  died  out  all  at  once,  as  if 
a  muffler  had  been  put  on  it — which  meant  that 
every  man  inside  the  turnstiles  realised  that 

[343] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


Conley  had  better  than  an  even  chance  to  cut 
off  that  tying  run  at  the  plate.  The  boy  came 
up  from  the  grass  with  a  jerk,  throwing  the 
ball  underhand  without  taking  time  to  set  him 
self  fairly  on  his  feet. 

Danny  Daly,  our  catcher,  jumped  high  in  the 
air — and  the  next  thing  I  knew  Bradner  had 
scored  and  Dillon  was  pounding  over  the  plate 
with  the  run  that  won  the  game  for  the 
Grizzlies.  After  making  a  stop  that  was  noth 
ing  short  of  a  baseball  miracle,  Conley  had 
thrown  the  ball  away  and  the  World's  Series 
stood  a  tie — three  games  apiece. 

VI 

We  were  dressing  at  the  hotel  and  after  the 
game  was  over  it  was  every  man  for  himself. 
WTe  had  to  fight  our  way  through  a  solid  mob 
of  lunatics,  all  singing  and  dancing  and  yelling 
that  the  Grizzlies  would  get  us  the  next  day.  I 
finally  got  to  one  of  the  exits  and  Solly  Jones 
reached  out  of  a  taxicab  and  pulled  me  in,  along 
with  Joe  Dugan  and  Eddie  Pine — four  of  the 
sorest  people  in  the  whole  world. 

"Well,  the  yellow  showed  at  last!"  says 
Dugan.  "I've  been  expecting  it  would.  These 
kids  ain't  there  in  a  pinch  and  that's  why 
they're  no  good  in  a  big  series.  Now 
Conley " 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  snaps  Pine.  "He  heaved 
one  away,  yes — and  he  blew  the  game  for  us; 
but  he  never  should  have  had  the  chance  to  do 

[344] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


it.  Who  was  the  fool  that  put  those  runs  on 
the  bases!  Who  knocked  me  on  my  ear  when 
I  was  just  going  to  grab  Dillon's  fly?  You 
make  me  sick!" 

"Well,  at  that,  there  was  no  excuse  for 
Conley  chucking  that  ball  away!"  says  Solly. 
"He  had  plenty  of  time  to  get  Bradner;  but 
he  lost  his  head  completely.  That  bum  heave 
of  his  is  likely  to  cost  us  the  series;  these 
fellows  are  going  to  be  a  tough  bunch  to  beat 
to-morrow,  coming  from  behind  and  grabbing 
us  this  way !  Gee !  That  was  a  hard  game  to 
blow!" 

Between  us  we  gave  Conley  quite  a  panning 
—though  Pine  wouldn't  let  Dugan  open  his 
mouth  once.  We  were  pretty  well  shaken  up 
and  we  didn't  relish  the  idea  of  going  against 
a  club  that  had  beaten  us  out  twice  in  whirl 
wind  finishes.  Somebody  had  to  be  the  goat 
and  Conley  was  elected.  We  didn't  give  him 
any  credit  for  the  good  plays  he'd  made.  That 
is  never  done  after  a  losing  game.  You  can 
save  one  nine  times  by  sensational  fielding ;  but 
lose  it  and  you're  first  cousin  to  a  yellow  dog. 

We  dressed  in  our  rooms  and  met  in  the  lobby 
afterward.  Conley  wasn't  there  and  neither 
was  Husky  Mathews,  who  shared  his  room  with 
him.  We  were  all  sitting  round,  with  our  hats 
pulled  down  over  our  eyes,  talking  out  of  the 
sides  of  our  mouths  and  roasting  Conley  to  a 
fare-ye-well,  when  Husky  Mathews  stepped  out 
of  the  elevator.  He  listened  to  the  anvil  chorus 
for  a  few  minutes  and  there  was  a  queer  look 

[345] 


SCORE   BY   INNINGS 


on  his  face.  Joe  Dugan  was  expressing  him 
self  pretty  freely  and  all  at  once  Mathews  broke 
out,  short  and  savage: 

"Conley's  yellow,  is  he?  I  wish  some  of  you 
game  fellows  that  never  quit  in  your  lives 
would  go  up  to  Number  Four-twenty-two  and 
take  a  look  at  the  leg  that  kid  has  been  playing 
on  all  the  afternoon!  Yellow!  I  don't  like  a 
bone  in  his  head,  but  I  can  lick  anybody  who 
says  he's  yellow!" 

There  was  silence  after  that,  because  Husky 
looked  as  if  he  meant  it. 

"Was  he  hurt  bad!"  asks  Solly  Jones. 

"Go  and  look,  you  soreheads!"  says  Husky, 
heading  for  the  bar. 

Half  a  dozen  of  us  went  upstairs.  The  tran 
som  of  Conley's  room  was  open  and  we  heard 
voices.  Old  Absalom  was  in  there  with  him. 
The  darky  was  almost  crying. 

"Boy,  fo'  heaven's  saik,"  he  says,  "why 
didn't  yo'  tell  me?  Dis  laig  oughta  been 
'tended  to  as  soon  as  it  was  hurt !  Yo '  wanter 
ruin  yo'self  fo'  life?  Misteh  Patten  he  sho 
will  be  wild  when  he  sees  how  bad  yo'  is  cut 
up!  Whyn't  yo'  say  something?" 

"Say  something!"  says  Conley,  shrill  and 
excited.  "Who  did  they  have  to  put  in  my 
place?  Nobody  that  knows  how  to  work  with 
that  infield  like  I  do.  If  I  had  peeled  that 
stocking  down  Patten  would  have  taken  me  out 
of  the  game — you  know  he  would!  I  couldn't 
quit,  Absalom;  I  had  to  stick  and  do  the  best 
I  could.  When  I  jumped  after  that  ball  it  felt 

[346] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


as  if  my  leg  was  coming  off,  and  the  pain  sort 
of  turned  me  sick  all  over  and  dizzy.  I  just 
had  to  throw  blind — it  hunt  so  I  couldn't 
see!" 

"Dere  now,  honey!  Dere  now!"  says 
Absalom.  "I  wouldn't  be  frettin'  myself  if 
Ise  yo '.  Dey  all  throw  'em  away — bes '  playehs 
in  the  land  do  it  sometimes;  but  dey  don't  all 
have  so  good  a  excuse  as  yo'  got,  an'  dey  ain't 
a-many  of  'em  game  enough  to  go  seven  innin's 
on  a  laig  hurt  like  dis  one  is.  No,  suh!" 

' '  But  I  lost  the  game ! ' '  says  Conley.  * '  I  lost 
the  game!  And  think  of  what  that  means  to 
the  other  fellows!  I  know  I  don't  get  along 
very  well  with  'em,  but  I'd  rather  have  had  my 
leg  cut  clear  off  than  give  'em  a  chance  to  say 
that  I  threw  'em  down!  And  now  I  can't  play 
to-morrow;  and " 

I  heard  something  that  made  me  back  away 
from  the  door.  We  went  out  to  the  elevator 
and  Solly  Jones  took  charge  of  affairs. 

"Hines,"  says  he,  "go  downstairs  and  bring 
up  every  man  on  the  team — every  one  of  'em. 
You  can  tell  'em  what  you've  heard.  This 
Conley  business  has  got  to  be  fixed  up  now!" 

We  didn't  give  him  a  chance  to  say  he 
wouldn't  see  us.  We  opened  the  door  and 
marched  in.  Conley  was  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  with  his  foot  in  a  basin  of  warm 
water;  and  Absalom,  on  his  knees,  was  working 
over  the  nastiest  spike  cut  I  ever  saw — and  I 
hope  I'll  never  see  another  one  like  it — a  deep, 
ragged  cut  five  inches  long,  clear  to  the  bone. 

[347] 


SCORE    BY    INNINGS 


Knowing  how  spikes  feel,  it  made  me  ache  all 
over  just  to  look  at  it. 

Conley's  face  hardened  as  we  came  crowding 
into  the  room,  but  he  couldn't  hide  the  tear 
marks  on  his  cheeks.  For  a  few  seconds  there 
wasn't  a  sound  in  the  place  except  hard  breath 
ing;  the  fellows  hadn't  expected  that  it  would 
be  so  bad  and  it  sort  of  took  'em  by  surprise. 
Solly  Jones  got  down  on  the  floor  and  examined 
the  cut,  whistling  a  little  between  his  teeth. 

"You  played  all  the  afternoon — with  that!" 
says  he. 

Conley  nodded.  I  don't  think  he  could  have 
said  anything  just  then,  even  if  he  had  wanted 
to.  Solly  looked  up  at  the  rest  of  us ;  and  then 
he  turned  to  Conley. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  said  he,  "I'll  shake  you 
by  the  hand  and  we'll  take  twenty  minutes  for 
a  new  book.  I've  always  wanted  to  meet  the 
gamest  guy  in  this  business.  I'm  for  you, 
Conley — win,  lose  or  draw!  Put  her  there, 
kid!" 

Conley  looked  at  him  for  a  minute  and  then 
he  held  out  his  hand. 

"All  right,  Solly,"  said  he.  "All  right. 
You  pitched  a  swell  game  and  I'm  sorry  I 
threw  it  away  for  you " 

Then  he  choked.  Well,  I  guess  there  were 
others  of  us  that  choked  too.  It  might  have 
been  damp  round  there  in  a  minute  but  for 
Solly  Jones. 

"Gentlemen  and  roughnecks,"  says  he, 
"allow  me  to  present  Spike  Conley!" 

[348] 


MISTER    CONLEY 


So  he's  Spike  Conley  now  and  the  Mister 
thing  is  a  joke  with  all  of  us.  We  call  him  the 
best  third  baseman  in  the  world.  We  may  be 
shading  it  a  little  at  that — but  he's  surely  the 
gamest. 

Oh,  you  want  to  know  about  that  seventh 
game  ?  We  won  it  in  a  walk,  thank  you — Spike 
sitting  on  the  bench  all  done  up  in  bandages. 
And  I'd  be  ashamed  to  tell  you  what  Joe 
Dugan  did  to  Mike  Mullaney  after  the  series 
was  over. 


[349] 


LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  030  543     3 


